


Imbroglio

by Mynsii



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Android Saga, Cell Saga, F/M, Heavy Angst, Post-Cell Games Saga, Pregnancy, Relationship(s), Smut, Three Year Gap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 79,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mynsii/pseuds/Mynsii
Summary: Life is complicated enough when you're teetering on the verge of an apocalypse. Unbearably so when you start sleeping with the murderous alien prince who happens to be living in your house.Falling in love with said alien was a catastrophic mistake, even by Bulma's standards.





	1. Ashes

**Imbroglio**

[noun]

  * An unwanted, extremely confused, complicated or embarrassing situation, full of trouble and problems.

  * _{archaic}_ A confused heap.




\--------

 

The house was empty, or, at least, her parents weren't home. Vegeta was in the Gravity Room, as per usual, and none of the employees ventured into the family quarters unless it was absolutely urgent, so they had the place to themselves. They would remain undisturbed for the foreseeable future, and she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. A knot of unease was contracting ever tighter in Bulma's stomach, surging through her veins and prickling beneath the surface of her skin. It felt as though someone had pumped her full of gasoline and then carelessly tossed a match in her direction.

 

Yamcha stood against one of the kitchen counters, looking just as uncomfortable as she felt, shifting his body weight nervously from side to side. The very sight of him made Bulma feel a bit sick, and the overwhelming finality of what she had to do hit her with a ferocity that was hard to handle. It had been months, maybe even years in the making, and now it was coming to a head.

 

She had caught him at a bar a few days earlier with some young, ditzy blonde – big breasted and small brained – sprawling across his lap, cooing about how it was _so awesome_ to hang out with a _super cool baseball star._ He'd insisted that it was innocent, that absolutely nothing had happened between them, despite the fact he had told Bulma earlier that day that he wasn't feeling well after a training session gone wrong, would have an early night, and would call her in the morning. When Bulma had spotted him with a drink in hand, the aforementioned floozy, and several of his baseball buddies during what was supposed to be a night out with some of the Capsule Corp. employees, she'd lost it.

The drink in her hand was thrown, rather unceremoniously, over the scar faced warrior and his mystery companion, and Bulma retreated back to Capsule Corp. without a word.

 

She had been dutifully ignoring him for the past forty-eight hours, ignoring everyone, really, trying to gather her thoughts and process what had to happen next. When she finally found the courage to sift through the barrage of text messages and voicemails he'd sent her, mostly weak excuses and frantic apologies, she'd called him back and told Yamcha that they needed to talk face-to-face. And now, here he was, standing in her kitchen, looking as shit as Bulma felt, the bouquet of flowers he had pitifully brought as a peace offering crammed into the trashcan.

 

“Bulma, please say something,” Yamcha said, timorously fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt. He could only hold her gaze for a couple of seconds at a time before forcing himself to look away, and the cowardice of the gesture only added to Bulma's anger. She tried to quell it, telling herself that she needed to be the bigger person, and that a temper tantrum would solve nothing, but the urge to rip him a new one was rising within her, gathering momentum with every passing second.

 

There were a thousand things on her mind, battling for dominance on the tip of her tongue. A slew of insults and accusations, daggered words designed to hurt him in unimaginable ways. But none of them came out. Bulma couldn't formulate the words and so she simply asked “Why?”

 

“I... I don't know why. I knew I shouldn't have lied to you, but I just... didn't think. I know I've fucked up, and I'm not asking you to forgive me right away. But just... please don't give up on us.”

 

“You fucked her.” It was a statement, not a question. Bulma forced him to meet her steely gaze,

Yamcha blushed, shaking his head violently. He reached out to touch her arm, his outstretched hand left dangling when she immediately recoiled away from his touch.

 

“Bulma, please.”

 

“ _Don't._ ”

 

“Am I not good enough for you anymore, is that is?”

 

“No, of course you're good enough. _Too_ good.”

 

“Then why?”

 

Yamcha's throat bobbed, opening his mouth to speak but saying nothing. He sighed, ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. “I just wanted to hang out with the guys. You know, have a normal night that didn't revolve around post -apocalyptic futures and murderous robots, and being under the same roof as a guy who literally _killed_ me. I just wanted to feel like everyone else for a few hours. That chick and her friends recognised me, and she wanted to hang out and...” He trailed off, finally opening his eyes again but refusing to meet Bulma's line of sight.

 

Bulma let out a bitter bark of a laugh, tucking a wayward strand of her hair behind her ear. “You don't think I'd like to have a normal life sometimes? Yeah, we've gone on amazing journeys, but I've also had to deal with shit no person should ever have to go through. It makes me want to scream when I see everyone else going about their day-to-day lives, completely oblivious to the chaos in this world. It fucking _sucks_ Yamcha, but this is the life we chose for ourselves so we have to suck it up. The difference between you and I is I don't throw myself at other men to make myself feel better.”

 

The warrior growled, his hands curling into fists. “So, it's alright for you to go out spending a fortune on clothes for Vegeta, and I can't complain about another man _living_ with you, but I can't have any female friends or fans, right?”

 

“You don't want me to buy clothes for Vegeta anymore? Fine. The alternatives are he gets to wear your clothes, or he walks around naked. Either option is _fine_ by me, so I'll let you pick,” Bulma snapped. “Besides, there's a big difference between letting someone live in the compound so we can keep an eye on him and stop him killing us all, and sleeping with someone else.”

 

Yamcha scoffed, “Oh please, I've seen the way you look at him.”

 

Bulma felt the heat rise from her neck, and turned her face away from Yamcha. Her physical attraction to Vegeta _had_ been growing, and while at first it had been a fun way to tease both Yamcha and the Saiyan prince, and she had delighted in their agitated and embarrassed reactions, it had quickly spiralled into something Bulma could not control. She found herself admiring the often half-naked Saiyan for just a few moments too long, or shifting her routine slightly so that she could catch a glimpse of him hot and sweaty and fresh from his work out. She even enjoyed their arguments, secretly relishing in the way they riled one another up when fighting about modifications for the Gravity Room, or Vegeta's flagrant disregard for his safety. It provided Bulma with a sense of purpose that she felt she had lost after the Boy From The Future's arrival. She could no longer tell herself that it was okay to innocently appreciate obvious physical beauty, especially as her thoughts grew less than innocent. Still, she had never followed Yamcha into (rumoured) infidelity. She had always been physically loyal to her lover despite his many indiscretions, and was proud of the fact that she had maintained a decade long relationship without cheating.

 

“So that's what this is about? You were punishing me because you can't handle being weaker than Vegeta?”

 

“I can handle him being stronger than me, he's a goddamn alien designed for fighting. I'm not enough of an egomaniac to pretend I could ever compete with him. It's the way you fawn over that rat-bastard like a love sick schoolgirl that just fucking _gets_ to me.”

 

Yamcha's statement, and the sour way he spat the words out irked Bulma, and she had to draw in a deep breath to steady herself. “I fawn over him?”

 

“'Oh, let me patch you up, Vegeta', 'you need to rest, Vegeta'. 'You're going to get yourself killed, _Vegeta_.' Why do you even give a damn?”

 

“Because I'm a good fucking person and I don't want him to die,” Bulma said, crossing her arms. Her cheeks were still warm, but embarrassment had given way to frustration, which was now evolving into unbridled anger. “Plus, if you haven't noticed, we _need_ him. You heard what that kid said. Everyone will die unless we can beat those androids. We need all the help we can get, and that includes Vegeta, otherwise we're going to be slaughtered like cattle. So don't try and deflect and make this about me. You're the one in the wrong, and me stitching him up and making sure he doesn't kill himself doesn't give you an excuse to screw some random floozy you met in a dive bar.”

 

“I didn't say it did.”

 

“Well, you're sure acting that way.”

 

They stared at one another for a minute, saying nothing. Bulma's chest heaved, desperately trying to quell her anger before it erupted and became unmanageable, trying to push the tears scalding her eyes away before they fell. Yamcha was hunched in on himself defensively, his mouth clamped shut in a tight line, brows knitted together. She didn't want to speak first, didn't want to give him the satisfaction, give into his provocations and bite.

 

Yamcha was the first to break the silence, dropping his head and guiltily shuffling his feet. He looked like a naughty child who had just been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar, and Bulma almost felt sorry for him. _Almost._ “I...I've never ever meant to hurt you, you know that, right?”

 

“That doesn't make it better, Yamcha.”

 

“We can fix this, right?”

 

Bulma swallowed the lump in her throat and clutched tightly at her forearms to hide the way her hands trembled. Her mind wandered to the last time all of her friends had been together in one place – the day The Boy From The Future had crash landed into their lives to impart his bleak warning. If she was being completely honest with herself, Goku's bizarre comment about having a baby had been the final nail in the coffin for their relationship. To her horror, Yamcha took that as his cue to propose to Bulma, setting up a romantic picnic complete with champagne on ice and a massive punnet of strawberries a month or so later. When he'd dropped down on one knee, and the realisation of what he was doing set in, she'd tried her best to let him down as gently as possible, citing that she wasn't quite ready to settle down. It was then that she realised they had no future, because the thought of dedicating the rest of her life to her childhood sweetheart filled her with a cold, inescapable fear. Yet she had still tried hard to make things work, to not abandon over a decade of shared experiences and melded hearts just because she'd grown bored, for lack of a better word, of their relationship.

 

Stumbling across him with that young slip of a girl, probably at least six or seven years her junior and blissfully naive to the world that Bulma inhabited, had been the straw that broke the camels back. She could no longer keep up with the charade, could no longer force herself to keep acting as though she and Yamcha were the same kids who had fallen in love all those years ago. He had burnt away the last vestiges of hope, gambled the shattered remains of their relationship for a cheap thrill with a girl whose name he probably didn't even know. He had humiliated in the most basic of ways, throwing months of effort on her part back in her face. She hated him for it. She hated herself for letting it come to this.

 

Her lungs constricted, and for a sickening moment Bulma was worried she might actually die there and then.

 

“No, I don't think we can.”

\--------

 

Vegeta's muscles were screaming at him, begging him to stop.

 

He had all but mastered four hundred times gravity. Sure, it had nearly killed him initially, but with each passing moment his body acclimated to the intense pressure, evolving and adapting to cater to it. Yet still, nothing. He had expected to achieve Super Saiyan status by now, after all, a lowly third-class warrior had managed to ascend after training in only one hundred times Earths gravity, and that _kid,_ a fucking mystery prodigy _child_ , had managed to achieve the legend – Vegeta's _birthright_ – before him.

 

Vetega growled, firing at one of the drones, feeling nothing but frustration when it shut down and dropped to the floor with a tinny _clank_ instead of exploding. The clever little blue-haired bitch had made them hardier, as per his request, and he had to admire her for her ingenuity and willingness to help him with his gruelling training regime, despite the fact he had, not-so-long-ago, threatened to blow her miserable planet to smithereens.

But he craved the satisfaction of destruction, the thrill of entire planets falling under his might, and his inability to obliterate one of her small inventions only fuelled the inferno raging within him. His shattered pride needed to see the results of a lifetime of pushing his body to its limits and beyond, yet now he couldn't even fell a simple ball of nuts and bolts.

 

“ _FUUCK!”_

 

Vegeta felt his knees buckle without his consent, his aching body finally telling him that enough was enough, refusing to co-operate any further, at least for today. He felt no closer to achieving the Legend, but he had exhausted his energy supply. Bitterly, he wondered how Kakarot did it. How Kakarot had pushed beyond the limits of a lowly Saiyan born with a power level so low he'd been immediately shipped off planet. How Kakarot had battled with Frieza for so long without burning himself and collapsing like a dying star.

 

Most of all he wondered _why_. Why Kakarot and not him?

 

Why had an imbecile who had lived his life oblivious to the truth of his own species been the one to ascend to Legendary status? Why had he, a stranger to the intergalactic power play that had wrought havoc across the universe, been the one to avenge the genocide of their people? Why had Kakarot been the one to attain the necessary skills required to destroy Frieza while Vegeta, trapped for two decades as a glorified slave to the disgusting bastard, could only lie back and die like a dog?

 

And why had that lavender haired boy beaten him to it a second time?

 

He had spend months rolling these questions over and over in his mind, torturing himself with his own shortcomings. With a frustrated growl Vegeta dragged himself up off the floor, groping for the control panel and turning off the gravity. He felt his muscles relax instinctively, his Saiyan genealogy taking advantage of small mercies and using these blessed moments of release to begin stitching together torn sinews and splintered bones.

 

He exited the chamber, the sudden rush of the early evening air engulfing him, and he closed his eyes for a moment, simply enjoying the nothingness. The cool breeze felt refreshing against his abused skin, moist with the promise of rain, and he relished in it for a few sweet seconds. But then his stomach curled in on itself, gurgling noisily, and with a huff he paced towards the house so he could find some way to appease his massive appetite.

 

He could sense Bulma, her laughably miniscule ki throbbing in the kitchen. Though it was tiny, barely detectable at first, he had gone out of his way to hone his senses so that he could always find her – and her parents – no matter where they were in the compound. It made locating them when he needed a new battle suit, or modifications to the Gravity Room, easier. But it also meant he could avoid them whenever the desire to do so struck. Which was almost all the time.

 

He considered temporarily abandoning his quest for food, trying to decide whether it would be worth putting up with his hunger a little longer and coming back in her absence. He had little patience for the oft-vulgar woman and her nugatory attempts at conversation. Her lewd mouth and precocious nature riled him in a way he'd never before experienced, testing his already lacking forbearance beyond its limits. The fact Yamcha habitually clung to her like a shadow did little to endear her to him, the scarred fighters mere presence a personal affront to Vegeta, a tumbling mess of weak-willed snivelling and under-confidence in combat. Nonetheless, he had grown accustomed to Bulma's presence, and her furious demands that he let her tend to the worst of his wounds. They offered him brief moments of respite, allowing him to drift out of his own head while she played nurse and chastised him for damaging his body. He would close his eyes and just float as her tiny fingers fluttered over scars and scabs. Now and again he'd peak at her, finding amusement in the way her little tongue darted out of her mouth in concentration, or admiring the way her skin looked, almost Saiyan-like, stained with his blood. It reminded him of his long-destroyed home. Truth be told, he sometimes enjoyed the back-and-forth, their heated arguments supplying him with just enough social interaction to keep him from completely losing his mind. Without Nappa and Raditz, he was severely lacking in that department, and while he had never been one for forging friendships or relying on the other people, he could only remain trapped within his mind for so long before it became unbearable.

 

And she was by herself, unmoving and undisturbed, so it wouldn't be _too_ awful to cross her path in his quest for food.

 

He entered the kitchen, his stomach growling and betraying his needs, and his mouth unconsciously filled with saliva. Vegeta had anticipated a snippy comment about him trailing mud and blood along the tiled floor, but to his surprise she said nothing, not even acknowledging his presence. He opened him mouth to say something shitty and inflammatory, but stopped when he spotted her.

 

Bulma was sat at the little breakfast table, her head down in her arms, face hidden beneath a fan of teal curls. Vegeta could tell she was crying, not just by the muffled sobs coming from her trembling body, but because of the wafting scent of hot, salty tears coming from her direction. He suspected she hadn't noticed him yet, perhaps too lost in her own grief to have, or simply lacking the observational skills to sense him. Humans were incredibly flawed that way. Maybe she did know he was there, but was ashamed of her vulnerability. He told himself he didn't care, that her sadness meant nothing to him and the dull ache in his chest was entirely coincidental.

 

He strode over to the fridge, skin prickling, and began to root through its contents for a snack. He heard her shift slightly, tensing at the sound but carried on regardless. When he turned back around Bulma's head was lifted and she was staring at him. Her pale face was red and swollen, and her beautiful blue eyes, wet and glossy, told the story of a burnt out galaxy. Dimming and lovely and little more than the shattered remains of something that was once magnificent.

 

The pithy remarks he would usually bark her way dried up in his throat, and his adams apple bobbed almost painfully. He had never seen Bulma look so vulnerable. He had seen her scream and shout (both at him and her weakling of a mate) and quake, but never he'd never seen such a dejected creature as the one currently sat in front of him. Looking at her made him feel lonely, reminding him briefly of his childhood, and those first isolated nights he spent staring into the vast abyss of space after learning of the genocide of his species. He internally cursed her for evoking such a pathetic emotion, damned himself still holding on to ill-begotten memories that he had spent years assuaging with every planet he purged.

 

He wanted to leave her to wallow in her misery, knowing he would have done so with ease only a few years ago. But he couldn't compel his body to move, his dark eyes locked on her blue ones, so he simply waited.

 

\--------

 

She hadn't cried until after Yamcha had left.

 

He had cried, pleaded with Bulma to forgive him, to give him another chance and he would never let her down again. It had splintered her heart, the shards slicing through flesh and staining her insides, but she held back her emotions as best she could. Breaking would have shattered her resolve and prolonged the painfully inevitable. Not to mention, she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of her heartache.

 

If she was being honest with herself, the whole incident at the bar had hurt Bulma's pride more than it had hurt her heart. Things hadn't sat well between the pair of them for a while, and she had tried to put that down to getting older and growing up, because no relationship, even a relationship seeped in insane adventures and mystical beings, could stay childlike and fun forever. At some point they had to mature, and work at themselves as individuals and as a couple, right? The passion fizzled away completely, and it felt as though they'd only remained together out of habit, and because they were scared of the change that would inevitably be thrust upon them in the coming years. Bulma and Yamcha both deserved more than the last vestiges of something wonderful, but worn out, so it had been time to say goodbye.

 

But she loved him, albeit with the same platonic love she felt for Goku and Krillin, and a life without Yamcha in it felt unbearably empty. There was a distinct possibility that she had lost Yamcha for good, and her rejection would send him spiralling beyond her reach forever. The very thought of never seeing him again, never sharing her life with him again, opened up an aching wound in Bulma's chest, and she felt a new flurry of tears well to the surface.

 

She didn't want to feel this way, torn between the desperate need to salvage the broken fragments of their bond, and the resentment that churned within her as a consequence of his cheating.

 

Most of all she felt incredibly lost and lonely, feeling the absence of her friends all the more as she sat sobbing, alone, in her kitchen.

 

Excluding the Saiyan prince skulking around Capsule Corp., Krillin and Yamcha were the only members of the group who maintained regular contact with her. Goku, Gohan and Piccolo had, in their usual way, largely abandoned the outside world in order to train harder and avoid distractions. Chi Chi had been very vocal with her disgust, having only had her husband back for a few hours before he snatched their young son away from her for days or weeks at a time, and Bulma was hesitant to bother the younger woman with her own comparatively small problems when she had so much piling up on her already over-flowing plate. Tien and Chiaotzu had, of course, disappeared into the wilderness or the mountains, or wherever it was they went to train. She had her doubts that she would she them again before the androids arrived. Truth be told, she had her doubts that she would see _any_ of them again before the androids arrived.

 

They were a confraternity of misfits; sharing a bond that was unbreakable, and built on foundations of magic and heroism. But they gathered like Dragon Balls, only truly reuniting to rectify a wrong and restore the Earth from chaos. Then, when they'd fulfilled their wish, they scattered across the globe, their ties to one another turning to stone again for another year until it was time to wake the dragon.

 

And Bulma... Bulma was left abandoned yet again. Left increasingly on the sidelines as each year passed, unable to keep up physically. Unable to adapt to a normal life after a decade of adventuring. Alone in a superficial, unsuspecting world that could never understand her or the secret society she inhabited, leaving her unfulfilled and forlorn.

 

The creak of the fridge door startled her, and her head snapped up to source the offender. Vegeta was rummaging through the groceries with one hand, the other gripping tightly on the fridge door, his naked back turned to her. He had a few new scratches and bruises littered across his skin, and the bandages on his knuckles, the one Bulma had wrapped herself a few days earlier, were damp and bloody. But it was all superficial, and they were minor considering the injuries she had tended in the past.

 

She wondered how long he had been there, feeling faintly embarrassed to be caught in such a state, but too worn out to really care. They regarded each other for a moment, Bulma flinching when something resembling _pity_ flashed across his face for a nano-second. She could deal with his spite, and his fractious nature, but his pity wounded her pride almost as much as Yamcha's betrayal.

 

“Woman, are you going to keep staring at me like that?” He growled, plucking an apple, a bunch of bananas and a punnet of grapes from fridge. He dumped the fruit on the table opposite Bulma, pulling out the chair and collapsing into it. It was rare for him to willingly spend time with anyone, usually skulking off whenever possible and seeking out Bulma or her father only when he needed help with something in order to advance his training. He had, surprisingly frequently, allowed Bulma to patch up any wounds he had, seemingly trusting her more since the Gravity Room explosion to the point he no longer complained when she insisted she clean him up and check him over. Sometimes she could even get him to engage in conversation, and though it was mostly her doing the talking, Vegeta would occasionally reply and add a dry remark or two of his own.  


But even then her company served a purpose, and she couldn't remember the last time he had ever willingly shared her company. If ever.

 

Bulma watched him for a moment as he peeled and devoured two of the bananas in about thirty seconds flat. He picked up the apple next, glancing at her for a brief moment before returning his attention to his pile of snacks. She couldn't tell if he knew she was crying, and self-consciously wiped at her face with the back of her hands. She didn't know why she said what she did next, just blurting the words out without really thinking.

 

“I want you to kill Yamcha.”

 

“Okay,” Vegeta said simply, taking a bite out of his apple.

 

Bulma paled. “Wait, just like that?”

 

“Of course. It's been far too long since I was able to kill someone, and it's the least I can do, given your hospitality.” Vegeta's lips quirked, and he chuckled quietly to himself. He finished the apple with his second bite, tossing the core to the side to shove a fistful of grapes into his mouth.

 

His eyes burned with something Bulma had never seen in him before, and it took a moment for her to understand exactly what was going on. “You're... you're joking, aren't you?”

 

Vegeta's smirk widened, and for a moment it looked as though he might break out in a genuine, honest-to-God smile. “It's not that I wouldn't relish in making your boyfriend suffer, but I can't see your band of merry men taking it well. While it would be fun to do the android's job for them, I'd rather focus on destroying them and besting Kakarot, so I can reclaim my title as the strongest fighter in the universe.”

 

Despite living with him for nearly a year – more, if you included his brief spell on Earth between their arrival home on Namek and the ominous arrival of the mysterious Boy From The Future – Vegeta still remained very much an enigma. One, to her dismay, Bulma couldn't seem to crack. Still, he was attempting some sort of humour, and he didn't seem to be making fun of her, but rather trying to make her laugh.

 

“Geez, don't joke about things like that! You had me worried there for a second.”

 

“You're the one making the requests, woman.” Vegeta said, raising a single brow. He finished chewing another one of the bananas, eyeing her carefully when he began speaking again. “I take it you and your lover have had a spat of sorts?”

 

“Why do you care?”

 

“I don't.”

 

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, and Bulma began chewing on a hangnail to release some of the bristling tension. The skin tore, drawing a little blood, and she hissed to herself. Vegeta's nostrils flared, his mouth curling down at the sides. He sighed, crossing his arms across his chest, muttering something to himself about _pathetic human emotions_ before asking her a single, simple question. “What happened?”

 

Bulma eyed Vegeta suspiciously, mimicking him by crossing her own arms and looking away. “Why are you even bothering?”

 

“Because your miserable state of self-pity is pissing me off, and you humans seem to relish in spilling every detail of your lives to one another.”

 

She drew in a ragged breath, crushing down the fresh set of tears boiling within her, the humiliation of Yamcha's betrayal fresh in her blood, coupled with the indignity of being scrutinised and interrogated by a man with the social skills of a rock. A very attractive rock, but a rock nonetheless. A rock who had, on occasion, massacred entire planets with his bare hands, and had very nearly obliterated her own planet in an attempt to quench his thirst for power.

 

\--------

Something about her, vulnerable and forlorn, intrigued him. It drove his focus away from his failings, and Vegeta felt a flicker of superiority alight within him. He had been indebted to Bulma and her family from the moment he'd arrived back on Earth. He could kill them, easily, but he'd chosen not to, and in doing so he'd become reliant on her for the technology needed to better himself. 

 

“He cheated on me. I found him with some chick in a bar and...and he cheated on me.”

 

Her confession startled him, and he had to mull over the words in order for them to make sense. As far as Vegeta could tell, Bulma was perhaps the closest thing to true royalty this miserable planet had to offer. Her inventions were so deeply imbedded into the day-to-day lives of humans that if she were to suddenly recall each and every product society would likely crumble before her. Her cunning little brain had amassed her an incomparable wealth, and she was pleasant on the eyes. _Very_ pleasant. Yet that moron, a man not even fit to lick Vegeta's boots, had traded her for a cheap liaison with another woman.

 

Humans never failed to amazing him with their unrelenting stupidity.

 

“Well, he is inferior to you in every way except for battle, and even then he only beats you by a thin margain. Perhaps he was trying to comfort himself with his own lowly standards to compensate.”

 

Bulma smiled, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Vegeta suddenly felt uncomfortable. “Careful, Vegeta. That almost sounds like a compliment.”

 

“Tch, don't be stupid. I'm just making an observation on status. I don't understand why you entertain him in the first place. He's an annoying little fly.”

 

“Maybe to you,” Bulma said, her face beginning to fall. “But not to me. To me he was my prince charming for so many years. My best friend. So strong and brave. Things have been... wrong for a while, but... this isn't how I wanted things to end.”

 

Vegeta rolled his eyes, his knuckles whitening. “That man is no prince.”

 

“Sorry, did I offend the _Prince of all Saiyans_ with my insolence?” She was challenging him, trying to bait him into an argument. She was succeeding.

 

“Woman, I am the heir to the throne of the mightiest warrior race to have ever existed. To have a man such as _Yamcha_ be compared to me so freely is practically blasphemy.”

 

“Actually, I never compared the two of you,” Bulma's eyes were glittering now, taking sadistic pleasure in Vegeta's reaction. The little bitch enjoyed getting under his skin, and aggravating him. He hated her for it, but this was better than her pathetic snivelling. “I just said he was _my_ prince.”

 

“Tch.”

 

An awkward silence settled between them once more, and Vegeta picked at the remnants of his snack. He was still hungry, but he had been hoping to temporarily satiate his appetite just enough to resume his training. But his body was refusing to co-operate, sore and exhausted, and he'd allowed himself to get too comfortable in the Earth woman's company. He couldn't muster the strength needed to get back out there, and he quietly decided he would push himself twice as hard tomorrow as punishment. He hadn't noticed the way Bulma's teeth began to work her bottom lip as they lapsed into wordlessness, nor had he picked up on her fluctuating mood. He only picked up on the change when he heard her sniff, and a single teardrop hit the kitchen table-top with a soft _splat._

 

“I hate him.” Bulma whispered, her voice hoarse.

 

“No you don't.”

 

“What the hell do you know?”

 

Vegeta exhaled, uncrossing his arms and relaxing his stance a little. “I know hate, and you don't hate him.”

 

She looked up at him, her eyes swimming, her bottom lip trembling. He almost wanted to kill her just to end her suffering. “I don't really want Yamcha dead.”

 

“I know.” He looked at he and wanted to say something more. Instead he just grunted.

 

A faint smile fluttered across Bulma's lips, her fingers playing with a wayward strand of her soft blue hair. “You know what, Vegeta? You're not such a bad guy. I mean, you're still an asshole. But you can be a likeable asshole when you want to be.”

 

“Shut up,” Vegeta fought hard to try and quell the prickling heat beneath his cheeks, snapping his head to one side as Bulma rose to her feet. “Woman, I need some more armour.”

 

“Sure thing,” Bulma said. And then she was at his side, bending her face close to his and pressing a lip against one of his flaming cheeks. Vegeta tried to form a coherent sentence, tried to bite out a scathing jibe, but he could only muster an undignified splutter. He would torture her, destroy everything and everyone she ever loved for such insubordination.

Then, just as quickly as she'd arrived, she was gone. Walking towards the door, waving her hand hand as she went. egeta tried to form a coherent sentence, tried to bite out a scathing jibe, but he could only muster an undignified splutter.

 

“Thank you, _Prince_ Vegeta.”

 

 


	2. Blue

The days bled into one another, and Vegeta still found himself locked in an angry rut. The power within him was building, reaching extraordinary new heights that he hadn't known he was capable of. He was strong enough to kill Frieza now, surpassing his one goal in life as if it was nothing. He could feel the potential deep within him, gurgling like a volcano getting ready to erupt. Yet, it still wasn't enough. He hadn't been able to tap into that fire, hadn't found a way of harnessing it to achieve the Legend that he had been promised to him at birth. Which meant he wouldn't be able to surpass that bastard clown Kakarot, and he wouldn't be able to put up a decent fight against the androids. Meaning everyone was going to die, and not by his hand, and he'd failed.

 

He growled as his bones popped, threatening to dislocated, or simply snap clean in two, with every push-up he completed.

 

Vegeta felt useless, and it was disarming. He wasn't used to feeling like he owed anyone anything, but all he had to offer the Earthlings that housed him was his body. His strength. And no matter how hard he trained, he couldn't even give them _that._

 

Providing them monetary support so that he didn't feel quite so... pathetic should have been easy, but of course, nothing in his life was a simple as it should be. Despite being Frieza's glorified slave, he had been paid for his services generously, and amassed a fortune perhaps rivalling Bulma's own. Not that he'd had much use for it, mind you. Raditz and Nappa usually blew most of their comparatively meagre salaries in brothels and bars whenever they had some free time. Vegeta, on the other hand, drank very little, stayed well away from any establishment that required you to pay for sex, and only occasionally splashed out on meals that were more favourable than the scattered limbs of the race he'd just annihilated, and a comfortable bed for the night. So his wealth had continued to stack, perhaps even without Frieza's knowledge, built up as a means of eventually surpassing the bastard that stole away his race and his life. But that had been in galactic credits, a currency Earth had never even heard of before, much less adopted for its own use. Now the black card sat uselessly on his bedside table. The most expensive paperweight in the galaxy.

 

He had contemplated snatching it and abandoning Earth for good, hitting it with a Galick Beam, and watching it fall apart like Arlia. Then he'd use his enormous wealth, as well as his enormous strength, to take over the galaxy and rule in Frieza's place. He was a prince, after all, and a Saiyan prince at that. Sitting atop of a throne of fear and destruction would only restore balance and order to cataclysmic fuck up that was his life. No androids. No infuriating earthlings. No Kakarot.

 

But...

 

It not only felt like a cowardly solution to a looming problem, but the idea no longer appealed to him. Though he'd enjoyed planet purging and slaughtering entire species, they were often merely moments of respite. An escapism from Frieza's tyranny. Before Kakarot had turned his world upside down and inside out, Vegeta's entire existence had been dedicated to usurping the galactic war-lord. He'd planned to take the title for himself out of spite, as a finally fuck you to the monster that had ruined him in every way a person could be ruined. But without Frieza to fuck over, and without the heavy burden his father placed on young shoulders, the desire to rule completely fizzled away. Enslaving others wouldn't wash away the scars of his own subjugation. Extirpating planets wouldn't bring back Planet Vegeta. And becoming the self-proclaimed King of the Galaxy wouldn't requite the blood right that was lost the moment his father drew his final breath.

 

Though he'd never admit it aloud, often refusing to admit it even to himself, Vegeta had a pretty good thing going on Earth. Even if it was just temporary.

 

The blue-haired Earth woman and her family had been more than accommodating. Providing him with a large room in a mostly private wing of the house (the wench herself had a room in the vicinity, but far enough away to make avoiding her, and the disgusting noises she and her former mate made during their late night rendezvous, easy enough if he put in the effort), an endless supply of surprisingly delicious food, clean clothes, as well as the brand new Gravity Room that _she_ had built from scratch for him. Speaking of, if you could get through the self-entitled, rich-bitch attitude and suggestive mouth, she wasn't such bad company. Bulma definitely had her uses, giddily accepting his demands for faster, stronger drones, or improved armour as a way of challenging herself. It almost reminded Vegeta of the near-suicidal urgency in which he'd accepted mission after mission as a means of bettering himself, honing his senses and increasing his power-level. He had to respect her for that. Her determination to not just win, but endlessly improve upon herself, and her fiery temper would have made for an excellent Saiyan, and it was a shame that this potential would go to waste with her complete lack of any physical power. Still, Bulma provided Vegeta with a verbal sparring partner that helped ease him through his agitation at not being able to ascend, and helped quell the frustrated sense of isolation perpetually nipping at his heels.

 

Not to mention, she was easy on the eyes. Quite pleasant, actually. Pale and soft, the unusual aquamarine of her hair, coupled with the bright blue of her eyes, giving her an almost ethereal complexion. She was a much more attractive specimen than most of the females Vegeta had dealt with in the past. That being said, Vegeta's experience of females was extremely limited, and his experience of women who somewhat resembled Saiyans – in that they had skin, two arms, two legs, and hands that didn't resemble claws or hooves – was even more so. Bulma was definitely aware of her own beauty, frustratingly so, prancing around in tight, revealing outfits, littering most conversations with dirty innuendos and lewd comments. She'd even had the gall to _kiss_ him.

 

He flinched at the memory, his cheek suddenly hot where her plump little lips had brushed up against his skin. His opinion of her abruptly changed, darkening.

 

That _bitch_ and her fucking sneak attacks.

 

He'd shown her mercy, when she was hunched over and sobbing, and she'd repaid the favour with an attack designed to reduce his ego to rubble. He _hated_ her for it. The only consolation was the bitch seemed utterly miserable, moping around the compound lacking all purpose, huffing quietly and consoling herself with unhealthy amounts of sweets, cakes and alcohol. Good. Fuck her. Vegeta was _glad_ she was suffering.

 

He continued with his pushed ups, his breathing laboured thanks to the stifling gravity. Everything hurt, and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to draw in a breath deep enough to satisfy his starving lungs.

 

Fuck her. Fuck Kakarot. And fuck those fucking androids.

 

\--------

 

Bulma sat on the floor of her lab, empty blueprints spread out across the floor, the trash can overflowing with a mountain of discarded plans and ideas. She'd been attempting to design a new armour for her houseguest, busying herself with the request. The chest plates had been the easy part, and she'd managed to adapt them so that they were light and flexible, but twice as strong. It was the under-armour that was proving to be the issue. Still as skin tight, as per his demands (and Bulma was beginning to wonder whether he had a fetish), but with increased durability and protective properties. She'd been tossing around ideas, toying with different materials, different structural patterns, but she just couldn't get it to do what she wanted. In truth, she was finding it hard to concentrate. It had been fifteen days since she'd last spoken to Yamcha. The longest they'd gone without speaking in _years._ At least, the longest they'd gone without death or space travel keeping them apart.

 

She'd missed him less when he was dead. At least then she'd known she'd get him back somehow, even if it meant traversing across galaxies and fighting an alien war-lord. She'd always been so certain that they'd succeed in their quest, because even when faced with the very worst life had to offer, they'd _always_ succeeded and come through in the end. It was just part of who they were, part of the brilliance of her friends, and it had kept her sane throughout the chaos.

 

She checked her cell for messages. Nothing. She checked her answerphone for third time that morning. Nada. Getting desperate, she checked her emails, knowing full well Yamcha _never_ wrote emails. Probably didn't even have an email address. Zilch. Bulma groaned, hugging her knees to her chest and suppressing a sob. Deciding enough was enough, and having a pretty good idea where her boyfriend – now _ex-_ boyfriend – may be hiding, Bulma pulled her phone out of her pocket.

 

She keyed in the number, holding her breath until it picked up on the fourth ring, “Krillin?

 

“Oh, uh, hey …Bulma. Long time no speak,” Krillin sounded nervous, and she could hear the muffled voice of someone who suspiciously sounded like Yamcha in the background.

 

“Yeah, it's been a while,” Bulma said, swallowing the lump in her throat along with her pride, adding: “Is Yamcha there?”

 

Krillin spluttered, and for a moment Bulma felt guilty. She knew all too well that her friend was ill-equipped to deal with any sort of potentially awkward or uncomfortable situations, and yet she'd gone out of her way to involve him in her relationship drama. “Hey, listen Bulma, I know things are awkward between you guys right now, but we kinda have more important things to be focusing on, don't ya think?”

 

“He's there, isn't he?”

 

“He is... he came to Kame House to train for a while. But I... uh, I don't think he wants to talk to you right now,” Krillin said. After a moment, he sighed and added, “for what it's worth, I'm really sorry.”

 

Her temper flared within her. Yamcha had been the one to cheat on her, and yet _she_ was the one grovelling. Rapidly losing patience, and not accustomed to being told _no_ , Bulma grit her teeth. “Tell him to come to the phone right now. If he doesn't, I'll send Vegeta over, and I've given him permission to do _whatever_ he want to you guys.”

 

“...hang on.”

 

There was a scuffle, and Bulma could hear the back-and-forth, hushed, frustrated tones and a healthy sprinkling of cursing. _'Come on, man. She's fuckin' bluffing. Do you really think_ _ **Vegeta**_ _would do anything she asked him to?' 'Probably not. But I also don't think he'd pass up an opportunity to kill one of us. Besides, he, uh, might still hold a grudge about Namek.' 'Maybe we could take him?' 'You're kidding, right?' 'Hey, fuck you, man. What's that supposed to mean?' 'It means I'd rather_ _ **not**_ _be_ _short, dark and grumpy's latest victim just because you don't want to have The Talk with your ex-girlfriend.' '...Fucksake. FINE.'_ There was another scuffle, the phone being passed between hands,

 

“Bulma,” It was Yamcha's voice, uncharacteristically sullen. “What do you want.”

 

“You've been ignoring me ever since...”

 

“Yeah, no shit. What. Do. You. Want?”

 

Bulma swallowed, unnerved by Yamcha's hostility. She should have expected as much. Bulma had broken his heart when she'd finished with him for good, even if he'd been somewhat responsible. “To talk.”

 

“You realise I'm trying train for the androids, right? But whatever, I'm listening. Talk.”

 

Bulma froze, realising only then that she didn't actually know what she wanted to say. Her goal had simply been to grab his attention, to kill the lonely feeling seeping through her veins and fill the void in her chest. She felt as though she might throw up, too many ideas and words and notions swarming around in her mind. Instead, she simply said “I miss you.”

 

“Don't...don't do that. It's not fair.”

 

“Refusing to talk to me for weeks isn't fair either, but such is life.”

 

An uncomfortable silence fell between the two of them once more, and Bulma fidgeted with one of the pencils she had been using to draw up her plans. She could almost _hear_ Yamcha scratching the back of his head, shuffling from foot to foot. She wanted him to say something, _anything,_ even if he was just going to berate and insult her. She could handle that, insults rolled off her back easily enough.

 

“Look, Bulma you can't just have your cake and eat it too. You don't want me, that's fine. I know I messed up, and I'm sorry. You have to make up your mind, if you want me, that's great. But if you don't, it's really fuckin' cruel of you to string me along like this.”

 

Somehow, despite her overall lack of strength, Bulma snapped the pencil she was holding. She looked at it numbly, her heartbeat quickening. “Yamcha, you know I don't want to get back together. I love you. I love you _so_ much. But I'm not _in_ love with you anymore. It wouldn't be fair on either of us to stay like this... It's... it's why it's easy enough to forgive you for your... _indiscretion_.”

 

"Is there someone else?"

 

Bulma froze, and despite herself her eyes flicked to monitor displaying the currently empty Gravity Room. Images of Vegeta, his muscles rippling, skin shining, flashed across her mind. Shovelling meals into his ravenous mouth, occasionally grunting his 'thanks'. His uncharacteristic, almost _kind_ smile when he'd walked in on her crying in the kitchen. A blush inadvertently crept across her skin. "No, I swear I haven't _touched_ another man." Neatly avoiding the question.  
  


“Oh, okay. That's ...good. I guess.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

God, this was so awkward. Bulma wanted the ground to swallow her up, wishing she'd never bothered to track Yamcha down in the first place. Was he even worth it? That frustratingly handsome and sweet bastard wasn't anything special, right? It wasn't like he'd been the number one person in her life for over a decade. He was just... Yamcha. At least, that's what she tried to tell herself.

 

“Look, B, I've really got to go,” Yamcha said finally. “Krillin wasn't lying when he said I came here to train. The gap between us and the Saiyans is just getting bigger all the time, and I'd like to at least protect myself so I don't die.” He laughed darkly. “Or, at least I don't die so easily.”

 

“Oh, yeah. That's fine.”

 

“So... just give me some time, okay? And don't send Vegeta to kill us. I'd rather not die by his hands. Again.”

 

“Okay.”

 

And then he hung up on her, and Bulma was left alone with her thoughts again. Time, yeah, sure. That was more easily said than done. They didn't _have_ time. If things didn't work out in their favour, if The Boy From The Future was right and they were killed, then time was a commodity they were rapidly running out of. Fuck Yamcha. Fuck his spiky hair and charming smile. Fuck him right in the ass. Vegeta too. For good measure, fuck Goku and all other others. She was fed up with muscled boneheads, with big pecs and bad attitudes. She was fed up with being tossed on the sidelines now she was no longer needed by them. She was fed up of feeling lonely and scared with no-one to comfort her or tell her it was all going to be okay.

 

Pulling her knees up to her chest again, she hugged herself tightly in an attempt at comfort. She felt as though her grip on her life had slipped substantially, and she was now merely a spectator to the events that were happening to her without her consent. She used to feel important. Like she had some modicum of control over the world around her. She used to be front and centre with the others, even if she had little to offer in way of physical strength or ability. But her role was slowly being tugged away from her, and she'd even been abandoned for long stretches of time while on Namek. Now she wasn't needed, not by anyone, and she'd isolated herself even further.

With a shuddering sob, Bulma pressed her face against her knees and tried to shut out the world around her.

 

\--------

 

Bulma must have dozed off, waking with a start as a trill ringing echoed through her lab. Drowsily she stretched up and clicked the 'accept' button, rubbing her eyes as she tried to re-orientate herself.

 

Vegeta's angry face flashed up on the screen, his onyx eyes absolutely blazing with unchecked fury.

He'd been grumpier than usual, as if being so nice to her (or, as nice as _he_ possibly could be) had sapped him of the finally vestiges of kindness he had left within him. Not that that well had ran particularly deep anyway, but the fact that he hadn't snapped her neck was yet (despite his many half-hearted threats) was a sign that he wasn't quite the bastard he had initially been when he'd landed on Earth.

 

“Woman, your fucking Gravity Room is broken. _Again_.”

 

Bulma didn't have time for the Prince of all Assholes, not today. She had been watching him via one of the monitors, distracting herself (or, at least attempting to distract herself and failing miserably) by making sure he was still alive. And, if she was being honest with herself, admiring the view of a very sweaty, shirtless Saiyan. But Vegeta had, as usual, pushed his body and the technology to the limit, and Bulma, having decided enough was enough, had manually overwritten the gravity when he'd left for a food run. Her already frayed patience was wearing thinner and thinner by the second, and she didn't have enough of it left to deal with him or his self-destructive bullshit. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

 

“Well, if you want to fucking _live_ and not be slaughtered by the androids that will be here within the next few years, I suggest you fix it. Alternatively, I can save the machines a trip, and kill you all myself because I can't fucking train any other way.”

 

Bulma rolled her eyes, tired of his melodrama, too invested in her own. “Relax, jackass. I remotely overrode the system because you were damn near killing yourself. I'll turn it back on tomorrow.”

 

“You _bitch._ You'll turn it back on _now,_ ” Vegeta threatened, his expression darkening.

 

“No. You're pushing yourself too hard. You're going to end up getting seriously hurt. Or worse.”

 

He tensed, and Bulma could see the veins popping on his forehead and neck. "Don't test me," Vegeta growled. "I've killed stronger men for far less."

 

"I know you won't hurt me," Bulma said defiantly, hands on hips.

 

Vegeta laughed, his eyes narrowing, the vein on his forehead still throbbing dangerously. "Woman, I spent a year of my life travelling to this God forsaken planet with the sole intention of stealing your Dragon Balls and then obliterating every last one of you."

 

"So do it now," Bulma dared. "You could probably destroy this planet in a heartbeat if you wanted to, and you've got the element of surprise on your side this time. The others wouldn't know what hit 'em, and by the time they do work it out it'll be too late for them to do anything about it."

 

"Are you _mocking_ me?"

 

"No, just pointing out the obvious."

 

"The obvious being?"

 

"You won't ever destroy the Earth because you don't want to. You're not the same person as back then, and I think you secretly _like_ it here."

 

Vegeta spluttered, comically so, and Bulma had to dash a hand to her face to stifle the giggle that lurched up and out of her. For a master tactician and mass-murderer, Vegeta was far too easily flustered. He was incredibly prudish, his rich, dark skin burning crimson whenever Bulma said or did anything mildly suggestive. Bulma had put that down to Saiyan biology, though. After all, Goku had been _painfully_ oblivious to anything sexual, so much so that she often found it hard to believe he was capable of creating a child. Saiyans just didn't seem biologically wired to desire or understand sex, so it wasn't entirely surprising that Vegeta didn't know how to react around the subject. Though it did provide Bulma with endless opportunities to amuse herself. But, more than that, any time Bulma switched the conversation to anything remotely resembling pleasantries, or any potential affection he might hold for her or her planet, he'd clam up and shut down.

 

When he'd regained some sort of composure, scowling like a petulant schoolboy, he jabbed a finger at the monitor. “Don't mistake my desire to get stronger and defeat Kakarot for attachment to this miserable rock. Test me any further and I'll soon forget about my pursuit and turn you into dust instead”

 

"As I said, do it then. Kill me. As soon as Goku and the others find out, they'll come and kill you. We do have a _Super_ Saiyan on our side, after all. And after they're done killing you...then they'll wish me back with the Dragon Balls rendering this entire thing completely inconsequential."

 

“I'm going to kill you slowly,” Vegeta growled. “I'm going to kill you, and then I'm going to murder all of your friends one by one.”

 

“What is your problem?”

 

“ _You_. You're my problem. Your incessant babbling, your overbearing need to try and mother me by tending to my wounds. Your audacity to _kiss_ me, then turn off the power during the middle of my training.”

 

This time, she couldn't restrain herself Bulma collapsed into laughter, “So that's why you've been sulking. You're pissed because I kissed your _cheek_. Honestly, Vegeta, how old are you?”

 

He huffed, and even through the monitor Bulma could make out the rush of blood to his face. “Now I know why that weakling chose to satisfy himself with another woman. I'd probably do the same if I were in his position.”

 

His words slapped Bulma hard across the face, and she winced in spite of herself. Her bottom lip trembled, just slightly, and pang of what appeared to be guilt momentarily flickered across Vegeta's face. But it was gone before she could decipher it, along with the last remnants of her patience. Her fingers travelled robotically to the switch that powered the Gravity Room and flicked it.

 

“Fine, whatever. Everything's back online. Enjoy your training, jackass. Don't expect me to do anything about it when you die.”

 

He opened his mouth the reply, but Bulma killed the video feed before any words left his lips.

 

\--------

 

The air was hot. Suffocatingly so. It weighed down on Vegeta, searing and wet in his lungs. It made trying to draw in a substantial breath near impossible.

 

His shorts were soaked to his skin, both with his sweat and blood, and his normally gravity defiant hair was beginning to sag under the increased pressure. One of the drones zipped past him, the shot it fired at him barely missing his right thigh. Vegeta roared, firing a weak ki blast at it to disarm it. He wanted to destroy it completely, but fuck if he was going to go crawling back to _her_ again so she could fix it.

 

Vegeta couldn't get Bulma out of her head. Her arrogant sneer as she dared him to kill her, her tinkling laugh as she openly mocked him. He was training again to spite her. Of course, he was chasing Super Saiyan status too, but the very fact that she had told him to stop – that she had attempted to force him to stop – had been enough to convince him to push his body twice as hard. He was done with being told what to do. He'd been forced to bow to Frieza for over twenty years, and enough was enough. He refused to be anyone's little lapdog ever again.

 

He kicked at another drone, catching it when it came hurtling towards his chest and swiftly disarming it.

 

Who the hell did she think she was? Did she know who he was? He was a _prince._ He demanded respect just by virtue of being alive. Not only had she been toying with him for _months_ now. Parading around in little more than her underwear, and throwing herself at him with a cackle whenever he sneered in disgust. She'd been bossing him around for months too, dictating his workout schedule, demanding that he shower, or change into clean clothes, or rest his aching body. And now she was tampering with the Gravity Room. _Again._ Delaying his ascension to the Legend. _Again._

 

That stupid fucking blue haired _whore._

 

Bulma was able to crawl under his skin like no other. Perhaps with the exception of Frieza, but even then Vegeta had tolerated most of the shit that came flying his way with the knowledge that he would one day overthrow the bastard and then _he'd_ be the one laughing. Nappa and Raditz were able to irritate him, sure, but they couldn't rile him up the same way she could. Frieza's peons were easily enough dispatched if any of them happened to get a little too cocky and forget their place, and when people in general very rarely went out of their way to aggravate someone who could fell entire planets with the tip of his finger. But Bulma seemed to relish in tormenting him. In making him squirm and boil. She didn't seem to fear his anger, instead enjoying the flare of his temper, as if getting on his bad side was a good thing.

 

He'd assumed that she'd be more tolerable now that she'd tossed aside that worthless excuse for a warrior she'd paired herself off with. If anything, she'd gotten worse. It had only gone downhill since the kissing incident, and he was able to tolerate her company less and less. She was either in a foul mood, sulking aimlessly around the building – often in his way – and the once witty back-and-forth between them was no longer enjoyable, but insufferable. Or, she'd dial up her vulgarity to the max, making him frustrated and uncomfortable in a way he had no patience to deal with.

 

Another drone swooped by, beginning to glow as it powered up it's attack. Vegeta's fist connected with the it, using more force than usual, and he instantly regretted it. It shattered under impact, showering him in scraps of metal and glass. He could feel dozens of little shards splitting the skin across his chest and upper-arms, but it was his fist that suffered the most damage. The pain ripped through him like a tidal wave, working its way up his arm and across his nervous system.

 

“ _FUCK”_

 

He dared to look down at his hand to inspect the damage, cringing when he he saw large chunks of the drone sticking out of it. Some shards hard sliced flesh all the way to the bone, flaps of skin and flesh hanging sickeningly away from where it _should_ be. It definitely wasn't the worst injury he'd ever sustained, not by far, but it did _hurt._

 

More than anything had hurt him in a while.

 

He grit his teeth, clutching his fist to his heart, the blood staining his chest and puddling on the floor with a rapid _drip, drip, drip._ It would definitely need a couple of days to heal, ruling out any intensive training for the time being. Pushing the goal of Legendary even further out of his reach. He could already hear the smug 'I told you so' that he knew would be coming.

 

 

\--------

 

“Kami, what happened to you?”

 

Vegeta was perched on the edge of the couch, clumsily trying to the clean his hands and wrap them in some sort of bandage. He had several small, thin gashes across his chest and upper arms too, but his hands seemed to be in the worst shape, bleeding profusely and somewhat misshapen. Bulma had followed the trail of blood from the kitchen door, but she hadn't expected him to look _this_ bad. He was pale, his usually bronzed skin an unhealthy ashy colour, and his eyes looked sunken and bruised. Her earlier anger towards him instantly melted away, replaced by a concern that made her chest throb uncomfortably. His jaw tightened when she took a seat next to him, but he stopped in his attempts at patching himself up and held out his hands for her to inspect. They were a mess, large shards of glass and metal embedded in the flesh, and when her gaze roamed over the rest of his body, Bulma could see smaller splinters littered throughout his torso. She sighed, realising that he'd been trying to patch himself up without even removing the offending foreign objects, losing an alarming amount of blood in the process.

 

“One of the drones... exploded,” Vegeta said finally, avoiding her gaze and staring at the crimson puddle forming in the floor between the couch and the coffee table.

 

“Uhuh. By itself?” Bulma asked, reaching into the bloodied first aid kit, taking out a pair of tweezers, various dressings, saline and stitches. She took his offered hand wordlessly, setting to work on clearing him up. Vegeta's skin was unusually cold, and the image of him broken and near death from the Gravity Room explosion flickered involuntarily into her mind, making her flinch. Yet again something of her creation had caused him excessive pain, and she felt guilty for ever agreeing to help him.

 

“No... I hit it.”

 

“You're an idiot.”

 

“No-one asked you to help me, you know,” Vegeta groused. But his words lacked their usual venomous edge, and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Bulma tried not to let the fresh wave of panic overtake her senses. She needed to be sensible. Let the rational, scientific side of her take control. She could freak out later, in the privacy of her own room.

 

“True. But no-one's asked me to stop.”

 

“Tch.”

 

The sat in silence for a moment, Bulma trying to disguise the tremble of her hands as she patched him up. Occasionally she'd steal a glance up at his face, alarmed at how tired and unwell he looked, angry that he had put himself in this position. That he had put _her_ in this position. _Again._

 

“Why do you push your body like this?” Bulma asked, tweezing out a shard of metal from between his knuckles and dropping it into an empty coffee cup. She picked up his hand, inspected the wound and tutted. It was deep, almost to the bone. It would still only take a couple of days to heal, but it had to hurt.

 

“To get stronger.”

 

Bulma gently lay his hand down on her lap, soaked a cotton ball in saline and set to work cleaning the wound. He flinched at the touch. .“Well yeah, no shit. But do you have to almost kill yourself every other week? It's like you weren't content with just surviving the Gravity Room explosion. You have to try and out-do yourself and find more creative ways to attempt suicide.”

 

“I want to beat Kakarot,” Vegeta said simply. He pulled himself up a bit more, straightening himself out. To Bulma's relief, the colour was already returning to his face, and she couldn't help but take a second to marvel at the healing abilities of aliens. “Didn't your little bald friend tell you that Saiyans grow stronger every time they nearly die? I'm being pragmatic.”

 

Bulma sighed, “And what if you actually die? I can't wish you back with the Earth's Dragon Balls again. You've already died once before, remember?”

 

“Oh yes, I remember.” Vegeta spat out through gritted teeth. “If I die it's none of your concern. You said as much yourself.”

 

“Of course it's my concern. Can you think of the media frenzy? 'Body of alien prince found on Capsule Corp. grounds, killed by the latest inventions of the ever fantastic, incredibly beautiful Bulma Briefs.' There'll be paparazzi _everywhere_ , and probably a dumb petition saying we should shut down and it's all my fault. That I killed the handsome would-be hero and doomed the world. Give it a few years and there will even be a crappy made-for-TV movie about us, and they'll paint you as some poor, misunderstood hero, and me as some negligent, big business shrew.”

 

Vegeta stared blankly at her, not fully understanding half of what she had said, nor really caring. He made a non-committal noise and turned his face away.

 

“I'm kidding,” Bulma said, an edge of concern to her voice. She began to suture the smaller gashes on his hands, turning them occasionally this way or that to get a better angle. “I don't want you to die because you're one of us now. I've had enough of my friends die on me in the past, I don't want to add you to the list.”

 

“As you've so thoughtfully pointed out, I've already died,” Vegeta muttered. “And we're not friends.”

 

“Oh.”

 

The words stung, and Bulma couldn't help but feel a little sad that he continued to push her away. She was so sure she'd urged something resembling a friendly familiarity out of him following her breakup with Yamcha. As abrasive as he was, she liked having him around. It made her feel useful, testing the boundaries of her scientific abilities. It eased the loneliness that came with the absence of her friends. She was lost between worlds, and so was Vegeta. Though his loss was a lot more literal. She had hoped that they could share a sort of comradery.

 

Sensing the shift in mood, Vegeta huffed, his shoulders tensing and jaw popping. “You humans always take everything so personally. I don't have _any f_ riends. I never have.”

 

It made Bulma feel a little better. Just a little. “What about that big guy who came with you to Earth?”

 

“Who, Nappa?” Vegeta snorted.

 

“Sure, Nappa, whatever.”

 

“He had to look after me. I was a child when Planet Vegeta was destroyed, and the only living heir to the Saiyan royal family. He was duty bound.”

 

“Okay sunshine, so what about Goku's brother?”

 

Vegeta shrugged. “Raditz was an imbecile who clung to Nappa and I for survival. Though, if given the choice now, I'd choose him over Kakarot.”

 

Bulma's brows knitted together. It just seemed incredibly ...sad. It felt as though he was attempting to brag, like any sort of emotional attachment was a weakness to be tossed aside immediately, but he just came across as someone who was painfully lonely attempting to pass it off as a choice, rather than something beyond his control. She looked at him, but he refused to hold her gaze. She wanted to reach out and cup his face, forcing him to look at her, but she restrained herself. Her hands were thick with his rapidly congealing blood, and even if it wasn't she knew there's no way he'd allow her to do so. It was hard to believe he was a mass murderer when he sat there like that, looking dishevelled and broken.

 

“Aren't you going to say it?” Vegeta huffed, his cheeks a faint pink.

 

Bulma's brows knitted together in confusion. She went back to stitching he wounds, thankful she had a strong stomach. “Say what?”

 

“'I told you so.'”

 

Bulma stopped, staring at him open mouthed with a look of undisguised shock on her face. “No, of course not.”

 

“Tch. Not like you to pass up an opportunity to be an insufferably smug bitch.”

 

Bulma winced. “Yeah, well gloating isn't as fun when you're seriously hurt. The worry kinda wins out.”

 

“Tch.”

 

They didn't say another word as she finished the stitches. Nor did they speak as she bandaged his fists. When she was done she packed away the first aid kit and cleaned up the bloody coffee table and floor as best she could. He watched her through half-lidded eyes, breathing noisily through his nose as she went about her business. When she was done, and the living room looked less like a crime scene, and Vegeta less like a murder victim, she rose to her feet and made to abandon the living room in favour of going to bed. Before she left Bulma glanced back over her shoulder. Vegeta was reclining on the sofa now, his head thrown back, but his eyes were fixed firmly on her. He looked tired, and surprisingly young. It made Bulma's heart spasm uncomfortably in her chest.

 

“Hey, Vegeta?” She asked softly.

 

“What now, woman?”

 

“Just... be careful, okay?”

 

Vegeta narrowed his eyes, his lips parted ever so slightly as if he were about to speak. Bulma braced herself for a scathing remark or insult, but to her surprise it never came. Instead he closed his mouth again, nodded his head sharply just the once, and turned his face away.

 

“Woman?” She was halfway out of the door again when he called for her, his voice low.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“...I was wrong when I said that I understood why your lover cheated on you. I don't understand at all.”

 

Bulma sucked in a sharp way, shock giving way to a sense of giddy understanding. Vegeta never apologised, but this was as close as he had ever been to saying sorry. The corners of her lips turned up.

 

“Thanks, Vegeta. Goodnight.”

 

“Hn.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. No Sleep, Whiskey Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegeta's frustrations mount as he struggles to cope with being unable to train, and his anger only intensifies when The Woman goes AWOL. 
> 
> When Bulma finally returns, several hours later, the night takes a somewhat unexpected turn for the perpetually frustrated Prince Vegeta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm shocked and overwhelmed by all the positive feedback I've received so far, and can't thank you all enough for your kind words of encouragement. It means so much to me. 
> 
> The focus of this chapter is very Vegeta centric, so harsh opinions on certain characters are his, and not my own. As the title suggests, intoxication is prominent in this chapter, rendering some characters (potentially) mildly OOC. Some of the words in the following chapter are variations of/based on my native language (Welsh), because I'm unoriginal when it comes to alien languages/words. 
> 
> As always, un-beta'd, so any notes for improvement and constructive criticism is welcomed.

Vegeta stared at the ceiling, his frown deepening, and mouth tightening to a thin line. He felt lost and useless, the mounting agitation only adding to his restlessness. He'd awoken that morning to an uncomfortable throb that started at his knuckles and extended all the way to his shoulders. A quick curl of his fingers had told him that he was in no shape to attempt any kind of training, the stitches pulling uncomfortably tight over bruised and swollen flesh. He'd placed another blockade between himself and Kakarot, no closer to breaching the gap between who he was now, and the Legend he was destined to become. The injuries on his upper arms and chest were all but healed already, though they had only been minor casualties in the accident. But he had split the flesh of his knuckles deeply, pulling large chunks of muscle and skin away from the bone. In his past life he'd spend a couple of hours in a healing tank and he'd be fine, hell, he'd even take one of those damn senzu beans if it meant he could return to his quest for ascension, but he was shit out of luck, and lacked both. The medicinal technology on this planet was far too basic, too primitive to properly treat his alien body. No wonder Kakarot had been doomed to die.

It was humiliating. 

Vegeta had once had the flesh torn from his body by the native prince of Planet Defadi, the wound exposing his ribs, and dangerously close to spilling his innards across the battlefield. Vegeta was little more than a cub at the time, perhaps only seventeen or eighteen, and had been purging the planet for hours before the royal reinforcements turned up. The Gaftis people of Planet Defadi resembled bipedal rams on steroids, spiralling horns protruding from their skulls, and Prince Hewynas had impaled Vegeta, hooking the sharp tip of the horn under his right pectoral, and tossed him, ripping muscle and skin away as easily as tearing rice paper. The wound should have been fatal, but anger had kept him alive long enough to retaliate with an attack of his own, and when Raditz and Nappa had finally found him, he was gnawing at Hewynas's raw leg as he bled out. Nappa had dragged the Saiyan prince to one of Frieza's ships, and less than an hour in a healing pod later he was fit enough to return to battle and slay the last remaining Gaftis scum where they stood. He'd worn the head of their royal heir as a trophy around his neck for days after that fight, flinching every time the horns brushed against the large scar now adorning his torso, only discarding it when the stench of decay became too much. Now, infinitely stronger than he was as a whelp, he lacked the means to return to basic training due to such a minor injury, simply because Earthlings lacked the means to properly take care of themselves. No wonder they were so frail and pathetic.

Bulma had done her best, though, patched him up far more efficiently than he could have, but he still suspected an infection of sorts had set in, his body rejecting the stitches and salves, and that was no good.

 It was just another fucking delay, and a perfect summary of his miserable fucking life.

With little else to do, Vegeta had spent most of the day pacing the Capsule Corp. compound, snarling at the various employees who happened to get in his way. The woman had instructed them all to treat him like _family_ (though the sentiment made him shudder and growl), and so they'd fawned over him like the servants in his father's palace had done when he was only a boy, and though it was befitting of his title, he had found their presence to be more of a nuisance than a luxury. Vegeta only found use for them when his enormous appetite roared to life. The blue-haired woman and her mother had fled the house early in the morning, making a tremendous amount of noise as they departed, and they were his usual source of food, the mother in particular obsessed with cooking for him. The father was in the lab, working on the drones that Vegeta had destroyed (and, had in turn destroyed Vegeta's hand), but he'd known he'd neither get food from the old man, nor would he want to eat anything that Dr Briefs could potentially produce. To his credit, Vegeta had attempted to prepare his own food, but his understanding of their written language was still limited, humans lacking the ability or desire to write in the universal tongue, though their native languages certainly shared oral similarities, so he'd eventually given up and given in to the trembling Capsule Corp. employees hiding in the shadows.

Now night had descended, and all he could do is lay silently on his back, glaring at the ceiling and attempting to will away the throbbing of his hands. It was hours passed midnight, closer to dawn than to dusk , yet sleep evaded him. Instead, his mind was wracked with thoughts of Kakarot and The Boy, golden and glowing, taunting him. Of faceless androids tearing his counterpart limb from limb with delicious grins that he once wore so well while soaked in the blood of his enemies. Of _her_ , draped by his side when she believed him to be dying, the heat of her lips against his cheek, slim fingers tending to every scratch and scrape littering his skin. He'd been thinking about her far too often lately.

To his surprise, Bulma had been gone for most of the day, his inability to sense her ki both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, Vegeta was relieved that he didn't have to deal with her, her recent increase of physical contact frustrating and angering him in ways he couldn't fully comprehend. On the other hand, without the ability to test his physical limits he needed _something_ to occupy his time. He didn't want to find himself actively looking for her, _waiting_ for her to come home just so that he had something to do. Yet he'd essentially spent all day waiting for her return like a worthless little lap dog. After all, who else did he have?

She was downstairs now, settled in the kitchen, had been for some time, and though her staff had satisfied his hunger, he was bristling for _something._ He wanted to scream at her, rile her up, smirk as her skin darkened and voice elevated in pitch. The rush of blood to her face, the curling of her firsts and the snarl of her voice held the ability to awaken something carnal in Vegeta, vaguely reminding him of home. Not that he had known 'home' for long, the memory of Planet Vegeta growing stranger with each recollection. Still, her tongue was as sharp as any blade, and she made for the perfect sparring partner, with Vegeta pretending – just for those heated moments – that she too was a Saiyan, and his existence wasn't so lonely.

He pulled himself off of his bed, tugging on a pair of loose fitting sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, and left.

\--------

 

When Vegeta found her Bulma was slumped against the kitchen counter, surrounded by several half-emptied bottles of various alcoholic beverages. She was dressed simply in an over-sized mans t-shirt, no doubt a relic from her relationship with _Yamcha,_ or a lost token from any other conquests she might have had over the years, paired with velvety shorts that were most certainly sleepwear yet still revealed far too much skin. Her hair was different, the messy tangle of curls he had grown accustomed to replaced by something softer and sleeker, a faint chemical smell wafting from her tresses. The colour and texture made it look like water, falling like a waterfall over her shoulders, and Vegeta almost wanted to reach out a finger to touch it. Almost, but not quite. She looked up at him when he walked in, her cheeks rosy, and a dopey smile tugging at her lips. “Oh heeeey, Vegeta. I haven't seen you aaaall day.”

Her cadence was off, her husky voice singing his name with a little too much vigour. Vegeta frowned and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “What are you doing, woman?”

Bulma motioned at her impressive collection of liquors and spirits. “Drinkin'.”

“Can't you do it elsewhere? Like in the privacy of your room.”

“S'my house.”

She had him there. The smug look on her face told him that she knew he knew, and she motioned for him to take a seat next to her. He walked over, opting instead to pick a stool at the end, further away. Nonetheless she smiled at his proximity, and Vegeta felt his frustrations of the day rush out of him in that moment.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Bulma asked, pouring herself another glass of wine.

“Can't sleep,” Vegeta admitted.

“Hand hurt?”

Vegeta grunted, attempting an awkward shrug. “I've had worse.” It wasn't a lie. He could list a thousand different injuries he'd had that were much, _much_ more painful. Still, the heat in his fingers wasn't pleasant, and he'd rather do without it.

“I'll take that as a yes.” Bulma pushed a half-empty bottle of wine in Vegeta's direction, the motion just a little too eager, causing it to fly off the table. Vegeta caught it, his hand snatching to neck of the bottle before it could turn upside down and spill its contents all over himself and the floor. Bulma seemed not to care about the almost-accident, offering him a lazy, inebriated smile. “You should join me. You need to loosen up. It'll help numb the pain too.”

“I do not need to 'loosen up', and I don't have time for these trivial games.”

Bulma looked pointedly at his hands once more. “Well it's not like you can do much else like that.”

He glared at her in response, but brought the bottle up to his lips anyway and took a hearty swig. He immediately regretted his actions, wrinkling his nose in disgust as the sickly sweet liquid assaulted his tastebuds. It reminded Vegeta of the shit Raditz would greedily guzzle during their off time, eying any women in the bar they were in with a wolfish grin . Raditz had also pushed Vegeta to join him, usually roaring obnoxiously when Vegeta rejected the drink with a scowl and a splutter, too drunk to fear the consequences of such actions. The prince would usually beat the older Saiyan for his insubordination, and Raditz would usually take it before staggering, bloody and bruised, back into the tavern and taking a female of his choosing.

“Not a wine fan, 'eh?” Bulma asked, eying him with thinly veiled amusement. Cerulean orbs sparkled as she spoke, alive with a devilish arrogance that could put his own to shame. Vegeta couldn't help but smirk.

“It's too sweet.” He admitted, pushing the bottle as far away from as he could. He contemplated destroying it with a small blast of ki, but he had a suspicion that such an action wouldn't go down well with Bulma, and so resisted.

Bulma began sorting through bottles, picking each of them up in turn to inspect them, before shaking her head and returning them to her makeshift bar. She eventually settled on one, golden and blue with a brown liquid sloshing around inside, and nudged it towards her alien houseguest. “Here, try this instead.”

“What is it?”

“Whiskey. Macallan Estate reserve, single malt.”

Vegeta blinked at her, jaw tense. He swore she sometimes spoke in tongues, just to infuriate and belittle him. He contemplated just leaving her to her own devices, something he should have from the beginning, but it felt too much like backing down and admitting defeat. So he decided to what he always did, and settled on scowling at her and the outstretched beverage with bored indifference.

The blue haired woman laughed, unscrewing the cap and pouring a measure of the liquid into a glass. “It's expensive and it tastes good. I think you'll like it.”

Reluctantly Vegeta took the drink from her hands, her fingertips twitching as they came into contact with his. He raised the glass to his face, never breaking eye contact with her, and sniffed at the liquid. It certainly smelt better than crap she'd first pushed on him. He took a large sip, and to his surprise found this drink to be agreeable enough. Greedily he finished the glass, slamming it down on the counter top and reaching for the bottle. Bulma smirked.

“Like it?”

“It's...okay.”

“Here ya go then, big boy. Go nuts. You look like you need it.”

They drank in silence for a while, though it was far more comfortable than the lonely day that had stretched out before him. It was not the type of company he had expected, lacking the fire and the seething hatred that usually drove their interactions, but it was acceptable, lulling the monster within him to sleep until he could return to his gruelling task. Bulma's face fell, studying the wine intently, swirling the liquid lazily. Suddenly her attention shifted, dropping the glass and fluttering her fingers through her hair. “Do you like it?”

Vegeta's eyes swivelled to the human girl by his side. He said nothing, waiting for her to elaborate further.

“My hair, silly. I changed it.”

“I hadn't noticed.” Vegeta lied, draining his glass down his throat and pouring himself another. Was she stupid? Of _course_ he had noticed. His senses were much more finally tuned than hers, and the scent of the change had been tickling his nostrils from the moment he'd joined her in the kitchen. Above all else, he wasn't a mindless moron, like that _clown,_ and was able to make simple observations.

Bulma frowned, but she didn't let the Saiyan's sour attitude dampen her own spirits. She groped for his hand, picking it up and pulling it up to her head. Her teal tresses were feathery soft between his calloused fingers, softer than he had ever imagined it being. Vegeta snatched his hand away from her, a low growl forming in his throat. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He hissed, staring at his hand as if she'd tainted it somehow.

“Showing you my hair, you said you didn't notice,” Bulma said, a wry smile on her lips for just a second before it melted away again. “Kinda reminds you of Namek, right? _Yamcha_ always liked it this way, like when we were kids. Except now things are a lot more fucked up and I'm not as young and cute as I once was.”

“Why do you care so much?” Vegeta asked, agitated by her constant moping. Her miserable species ran the risk of extinction, and she was _still_ grizzling over such trivial issues. “You insist on pining man _you_ chose to leave. It's... pathetic. Are you still so in love with him that you are willing to waste your life waiting for his return?”

“No. I'm _not_ in love with him,” Bulma frowned, her lips pursing and brows knitting together. “It's not like I can talk about all of this end-of-the-world bullshit with anyone else, and all of out friends are gone, and I _get_ that they're off training to save us all, but it just leaves me behind alone and redundant. It's been lonely without Yamcha, that's all. Loneliness leads to boredom. Boredom leads to drinking. A sentiment you clearly share with me.”

Choosing to ignore her last comment, Vegeta cringed at the mention of the Earth human's name. Especially when it rolled from between Bulma's lips. Her never ending fondness for the scarred fighter frustrated him no end; she was incredibly weak, and not without her faults (in fact, as far as Vegeta could tell, she had a _lot_ of those), but she was far superior to Yamcha and any of Kakarot's other friends. He had been forced to do so with the fall of his race; forced to bow to frost demons in place of his king, forced mate with aliens in place of a female of his species, forced to toss aside his royal riches in favour of a paupers life. Vegeta had no choice in the matter, yet she allowed herself to sink lower than her place, willingly doing so, and it was disgusting. Involuntarily, Vegeta's upper lip curled up in a a snarl. “... I don't like him.”

Bulma laughed. “You don't like anyone.”

“Not true. You're tolerable. Sometimes.”

Bulma beamed at him. “Wo-ow, Vegeta. Are you being _nice_ to me again?”

He scoffed, trying to dispel the rush of blood to his face before it became noticeable. He wasn't nice. Especially to her, to her pitiful species. He'd have killed them all, had Kakarot not intervened. Had Frieza not rushed to Namek to claim the Dragon Balls for himself, had his lungs not been punctured with a malicious bullet of ki, had---

“No. I also tolerated Raditz and Nappa for twenty-five years. I'd say my tolerance for you is more or less equal.”

Bulma paled, her grip on her wine glass tightening ever so slightly. “Didn't you kill Nappa?”

“...”

“Oh, shit.”

Vegeta scowled, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, and blowing air out of his nose. “You have no need to be concerned, have no intention of ever killing you. You're far too useful... Your _technology_ is far too useful,” he amended.

A grin split Bulma's face in two once again, her eyes sparkling. “All these compliments will give me an ego.”

Vegeta felt himself relax somewhat. “Tch. Like you don't already have one.”

“Some bold words coming from Mr Saiyan Pride,” she pushed her weight onto her elbows, and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “So if you can't sleep, and I can't sleep, I suggest we 'don't sleep' together. And as you are my houseguest, I want you to tell me more about yourself.”

 

\--------

 

Bulma had slowed her drinking somewhat. She'd insisted they both down a few shots of something she called 'tequila', claiming they simply _had_ to, and Vegeta was in no mood to argue, so he'd went along with it to avoid any potential nagging. But she'd been nursing the same glass of wine for nearly an hour now, her face flushed prettily, while Vegeta had chugged... who knows how many whiskeys, the first bottle empty a second one half-way there, a slow burn blossoming across his own cheeks. Vegeta had always assumed he'd had a high tolerance for alcohol – he'd all but mastered self control, and had an extraordinarily high pain threshold -but, then again, he'd never really indulged in the habit. He'd never had a large surplus of free time, and besides, inebriation meant lowered defences, and there were _plenty_ of people who would be more than willing to take advantage of a Vegeta with a dropped guard. But here he was, lost in a golden sea that disconnected him from everything he was, and everything he had ever known. His hand was still busted, better but not healed enough to resume training so time was not a factor, and there was nothing Bulma could ever do that could kill him. Not that he was worried about that. Despite himself, he actually trusted her. She gave him no reason not to, and she was the only human – potentially the only person he'd _ever_ come across – that had his trust.

Which would probably explain the fingers Bulma had wrapped silkily around his bicep, one of them (he couldn't recall which) swapping seats at some point so that they were now sat side-by-side, and the fact he was _letting_ her wrap those fingers around his bicep without argument. It would probably also explain the fact that Vegeta was actually having a _conversation_ with her. Or, more accurately, she was talking – mostly asking questions about his life, his home planet, and the things they had done prior to his arrival on Earth – and he would occasionally grunt a real reply back at her, or boast about a battle he'd won. When she'd paled half-way through an animated (and extremely graphic) retelling of the fall of Planet Melyn, the first planet he'd ever purged, he'd opted to omit the worst of his stories, fearing she might cry or vomit all over him. Her blood didn't roar for battle the same way his did, the same way it was roaring right now, and her feeble sensibilities couldn't handle the tales of his past in the way he would have liked.

"Do you miss it?" Bulma asked, her eyelashes fluttering up at him as she spoke. Had she always been this satisfying on the eye? Perhaps. It was hard to tell. It's not like he could ever deny her beauty, he wasn't blind or stupid. And it's not like he hadn't caught himself appreciating said beauty from time-to-time. He was just a man, after all, albeit a man with too much to do to possibly entertain such thoughts. But had it always been this hard to look _away_? He couldn't remember, thoughts and memories and desires were beginning to blur into one incomprehensibly blob, and he wondered idly if she'd poisoned him. But that notion was also lost almost as soon as it bubbled to the surface, his mind simultaneously racing and crawling at a snail's-pace. Vegeta swirled the remnants of his drink around in his glass, before swallowing it down. It tasted as warm as her touch felt, quite pleasant too. He had been staring at her for too long, and he couldn't remember what they were talking about.

"Miss what?"

"Your tail."

Vegeta frowned. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it." It was a lie. He missed his tail terribly. It kept the primal, animalistic part of him trapped and snarling, with no way of escaping. It twitched and itched and ached, all he could do was scratch or grope at thin air to try and alleviate the discomfort, and its absence made him look alarmingly _human._ Not that he'd admit that. Not that he _could_ admit that in his current state.

"Really?" Bulma propped herself up against the counter, her chin in the palms of her free hand. "When Goku lost his tail he was stumbling around for days." She snorted at the memory.

" _I_ wore mine at the hip."Vegeta said, as though it meant anything at all to her. A quick glance at her confirmed she had no idea what he was talking about, and he rolled his eyes. But he smiled as he did so, the alcohol making him feel a lot less … _himself_ , and he actually quite liked the way her dark blue eyes twinkled whenever he offered her a quirk of his lips. “We'd train ourselves to wear our tails around our waists. That way they wouldn't get in our way, and they weren't such an obvious weakness in battle.”

“Why?”

Vegeta's eyes roamed to the grip she had on his arm, her fingers massaging his battle scarred flesh slightly. Something stirred in the pit of his stomach, but he couldn't quite name it. In fact, he was finding it harder to concentrate in general, losing focus on everything but the Earth girl directly in front of him. He groped for the bottle between them, pouring himself another and taking a large swig before replying. “Our tails are sensitive. As you probably know. S'easier to train ourselves to stop 'em being sensitive and prevent weaknesses in battle.”

Bulma nodded, leaning into him. “Makes sense.”

“Hn."

She was so close to him, invading his nostrils. Aside from the stale rank of alcohol and the chemical twang to her hair, she smelt nice. Warm and soft, and distinctly Bulma. A heady mixture of laboratory parts, vanilla, and strawberry shampoo. A few strands of her rearranged hair brushed up against his skin, and he was pleased when it offered him a fresh burst of her scent. Had he ever felt anything so soft before? Vegeta couldn't remember. Most things, most _people_ , that touched him only did so violently, and a way that only furthered the damage done to his battle marred skin. Bulma was the only anomaly. She had been disarmingly gentle with him from day one, and he was still yet to work out why. After all, he'd journeyed to Earth with the sole intention of stealing the Dragon Balls and ridding the planet of all other life, had played a colossal role in the deaths of her loved ones, and done little to prove that his intentions had changed. But she'd insisted on housing him, caring for him, tending to his every whim and wound. It was unexpected, and potentially suicidal. Her hand travelled up his arm, and even with all the alcohol in his system, Vegeta reflexively tensed. She didn't seem to notice, too lost in her state of moderate inebriation. It was beginning to have a dizzying effect on him too, and Vegeta could feel the edges of his consciousness begin to blur and fray.

“Hey Vegeta?” She drawled, leisurely stroking the length of his arm. Her touch was bewildering, whispering to something caged and forgotten deep in the pit of his gut. It made him want to wriggle out of his skin, the pressure becoming unbearable, but he didn't want he to stop.

“Hn?”

“If your planet is called Vegeta, and the king was Vegeta, is that your actual name os it is like a title? Like do you assume the role of a 'Vegeta' as a royal heir? A _non de guerre_ type thing?”

“I... I'm not sure. I can't remember. Possibly? It'd make sense...” Vegeta's brows knitted together. “Else my father jus' _really_ liked the name. Vain bastard.”

The blue haired woman chuckled at his words, the sound low and rumbling in her throat. Vegeta could feel it vibrate through her skin and into his, ricocheting through his body and pooling in his groin. He looked at her, taking more than a moment to steady his gaze, and their eyes met. She wet her lips with a quick flash of her tongue, and increased the pressure of her palm on his skin.

“You have a niiiice body,” Bulma purred, only slurring slightly on elongated vowels. His throat dried, head spinning. She really was a lewd Earth creature, with a one track mind that seemed to rarely deviate from its primary focus. She was disgusting, brazen and an affront to Vegeta's complicated and limited set of morals. Still, he liked having his ego stroked, and her cool fingers caressing him pleasantly, a marked difference from the violent ways he was usually touched. They numbed the burning in his hand, though he suspected the liquid he'd been guzzling for the last few hours may have also had an anaesthetic effect, and helped soothe the mighty Oozaru raging silently within him. He found himself following her down the same slippery path. He wanted her hands to wander, wanted to take her and expel some of this pent up energy. Vegeta's mind wandered, imagining what Bulma may look like flushed and panting beneath him. He wanted to destroy her, send her spiralling and weeping with his power, prove to her – and to himself – that he was still the enormous force to be reckoned with that had once been feared across the galaxy. Not to be underestimated. She'd be _begging_ him for mercy, and if she was lucky he'd comply and shatter her, his name bubbling on her lips as she arched against him.

“Thanks,” Vegeta managed, forcing down the throb in his crotch and lump in his throat. The baggy shirt she was wearing hung dangerously loose around her neck and chest, giving him an eyeful as she hunched her shoulders and leaned further into him. Her chest, much like her face, was flushed pink from intoxication, and the colour clashed rather deliciously with the crimson of her bra. It also helped feed the fantasies brewing within him. Given the chance he would rip that pretty brace clean in two, exposing her to him and ravaging her flesh. Disgusted, and rather ashamed of himself for staring, Vegeta snapped his head to the side. But the alcohol had distorted his reflexes, and the action was too violent. He found himself toppling over, off of the bar stool, landing rather unceremoniously on the kitchen floor with a _thunk._

Bulma collapsed into a fit of laughter, waggling a finger in his direction. “Smooth move, Prince Bad Man.”

“Fuck you.” Vegeta kicked at the legs of her stool, grinning when it cracked clean in two and fell from under her. Her eyes widened as she began to tumble, and it was his turn to laugh. Not even stopping when she crashed into his own body with an undignified _oof._

“You _suck,_ Vegeta. The others were right, I should never had taken you in,” she grouched, clumsily attempting to prop herself up but failing miserable. She weighed next to nothing, and yet he was suddenly hyper aware of her body, flush against his. Their cheeks were mashed together, legs tangled and panting breaths merged into one. The world suddenly felt much smaller. Suffocatingly so.

“S-shut up.”

Bulma finally reared her head up so that they were looking one another in the eye, her nose hovering just above his own. Something dark and needy had taken hold of her, he could see it in his eyes, a reflection of the war raging within Vegeta's own body. His hand found her thigh on its own volition, squeezing the flesh, making her yelp in surprise. Vegeta thought he detected a hint of something else - perhaps fear? - but the room was spinning uncomfortably around him, making it hard to concentrate.

“V-vegeta?” Bulma sounded uncertain, but she pressed her body tighter against him. Without thinking, he kneaded at her thigh again, but instead of a yelp this time he elicited a low moan. Her cheeks were warm, lips parted slightly and half-lidded eyes glazed over. She was aroused, there was no denying that, and Vegeta's breath hitched in his throat. He had made up his mind.

“You really are a vulgar creature, wo-women.”

She opened her mouth to drunkenly protest, but he stopped her before she could begin. His hand, the one that wasn't pawing at her, gripped the back of her head and pulled it close. Without thinking, he hungrily pressed his lips to hers, using her shock to his advantage and slipping an exploratory tongue into her mouth. Something inside of him begged Vegeta to stop. A faint echo in his skull, obscured by the tide of liquor in his system, told him that he should be repulsed by his own actions, abashed by his uncharacteristic behaviour. But when Bulma began to return the kiss, just as hungrily, any protest dissolved. With a snarl he rolled them over so that she was now beneath him, flushed and panting. He purred, almost cat like, breaking the kiss to trace her jaw with his nose and mouth, occasionally nudging at her with what could perhaps be considered affection. Vegeta hazily wished that he still had his tail, a primal part – awakened when the sensible, analytical brain had been put to bed with whiskey – wanted to wrap it around Bulma's waist or thigh, hold her close to him as he nuzzled and groped. The base of his back twitched with his phantom limb, aching to curl around soft flesh and skin as he inhaled her scent. Perhaps he'd even let her pet at his fur.

One of Bulma's legs moved to wrap around his waist, and Vegeta's hips bucked at the contact, his lips making their ravenous return to her mouth. Her hands moved to his hair, gripping at the roots and tugging, while one of his own groped at her breasts. It was like he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, every single nerve demanding attention at once. Demanding for him to claim her. Bulma's thighs tightened, grinding against him as his own actions became more aggressive and needy. She gasped when he finally broke their kiss, electing to nip and suck at her jugular instead. She was wet, he could feel it and smell it, her trembling body growing more frantic with every passing second. The hand on her breast slipped down, dipping just below the waistband of her shorts. _She wasn't wearing panties._

“Mmm, Vegeta. _Don't stop._ ”

Her voice shocked him back to reality, sobering him enough to take stock of the situation. Suddenly alarmed, Vegeta looked at her with creeping awareness and began to panic. Bulma was splayed beneath him, her chest heaving, shirt ridden up to expose the smooth ivory curve of her stomach, and to his horror Vegeta realised that not only was her body begging for him to take her, but he had _wanted_ to.

“ _FUCK._

 He stood up sharply, dropping the young woman and staggering back. She mewled at the loss of contact, rubbing at her ass from where it had crashed against the kitchen floor, her eyes narrowing at him.

“What the hell are--”

He didn't hear the rest of what Bulma had to say, already out of the kitchen and retreating to his room. He was never one to turn tail in war, but he hadn't known what else to do. Drunken desire had drove him to grind against a filthy human girl, and instinct was now telling him to run. He trusted instinct, at least somewhat. It had kept him alive up until now. A flash of crimson caught his attention, his right hand bleeding once more, several stitches clearly torn beneath the dressings. It had probably happened during the fall. Or when he was exploring her supple body with his hands. With a growl Vegeta aimed his bloody fist at the wall, the whole house vibrating on collision. He had fucked up. More than he ever had in his miserable life, more than he could fully comprehend.

Through the glass of the balcony doors, he watched as the sun began to rise.

 


	4. Regrets, Revenge and Arousal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the night before, and the cliche reactions to events transpired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, I'm not a huge fan of this chapter. I didn't particularly enjoy writing it, if only because it just feels like the muddy middle stuff between points, and the original scenes that I wrote (which started this fanfic) are a few chapters ahead, and I kinda just want to get to them already.
> 
> That being said, I /tried/. Staying up till 3am to finish scenes and nail down ideas, so I hope you can enjoy reading it more than I enjoyed writing it!

When Bulma first awoke, her immediate reaction was to swallow down the vomit gurgling in the back of her throat, and the headache that came creeping with consciousness. Her second thought was centred on the source of her mounting hangover, specifically to her impromptu late night drinking session with _Vegeta_ of all people.

Her mother had taken her shopping the previous day, trying to put an end to the moping that came with the knowledge of almost certain annihilation, splurging on beautiful designer clothes, shoes, and bags (along with two bags of clothes for their problematic houseguest), and treating Bulma do a make-over at the end of the day. She'd known her mother had meant well, but it did little to alleviate her fears for the future, knowing that they were rapidly running out of time, and their best efforts may not be enough to put an end to the invisible threats looming above them. Which is where the alcohol came in. Getting drunk meant Bulma could forget about everything for at least a few hours, could pretend she wasn't privy to the looming apocalypse which would claim the lives of everyone she loved, and just be _normal._ For the first time in fourteen years. For the first time _ever._ She certainly hadn't counted on Vegeta joining her, looking miserable as sin with his swaddled hands and sullen face, and she _definitely_ hadn't anticipated his company being pleasant.

Then _he'd_ kissed _her._ After months of rebuffing her playful advances, Vegeta had been the one to make the first real, sincere move, even if it was thanks to enough whiskey to kill an adult human.

“Shit.”

A fresh wave of nausea washed over Bulma, and she wasn't sure if it was the memory of Vegeta's battle hardened body grinding against hers, or the cheap white wine trying to expel itself from the pit of her stomach. Probably both. She groaned, cupping her hand over her mouth and collapsing back further into her mattress. It's not like she even _wanted_ Vegeta. She enjoyed flirting with him to provoke a reaction, tantalising him with her body because that was the limit of her physical power. But actually acting on her suggestive comments? She'd never thought about it. Not seriously. Yes, she was attracted to him. He was handsome, maybe not conventionally so, but his impossibly dark eyes, rich bronze skin, and muscled physique definitely appealed to the bad-boy obsessed girl buried not-so-deeply within her. But she'd developed a passing attraction to almost all of her friends at one point or another, it was hard not to given they looked as though they'd been sculpted by the Gods, so she hadn't anticipated on it lasting long.

At least, that's what Bulma told herself.

Reluctantly pulling herself to her feet, Bulma made her way to her en-suite, navigating the minefield of shoes, blueprints and magazines littering her bedroom floor. Each step hurt, exacerbating the throbbing in the back of her skull, stirring the volcano in the pit of her gut. Maybe she was too old for reckless drinking sessions on the kitchen floor. Most of her friends, at least the ones who didn't fly and save the world on a regular basis, had outgrown such behaviours. Maybe if _she_ grew up too, she wouldn't have the taste of an alien warlord's tongue in her mouth. Steeling her hands on either side of the sink, Bulma stole a glance at her mirror.

_So I like to stare at him when he's training, and I've had the odd erotic dream about him. It doesn't mean I actually **want** Vegeta, right? _

Bulma groaned at her reflection. She looked like _shit._ Her now-straightened hair stuck out comically in various directions, rivalling Goku's messy mane, and her skin had acquired an awful green hue, topped off with an ever-flattering sweaty sheen. She pouted, grimacing at the coagulated drool clinging to corner of her lips, at the mascara smeared around her eyes, and dragged a hand over her face.

“What have I got myself into?”

Housing Vegeta had been a colossal mistake from day one. Yamcha had flatly said _no,_ a mistake he should have had the common sense to avoid. Telling Bulma she couldn't do _anything_ was a sure-fire way of assuring she'd do whatever it was without any real thought or hesitation. Tien had scoffed, but held his tongue, simply glaring at Vegeta with an unspoken threat that promised bloodshed if Bulma was hurt in any way, while Krillin had taken her aside to ask her if she was really _sure_ this was a good idea. Bulma had been grateful for her friend's concern, but she'd made up her mind and nothing could dissuade her at that point. Sociopathic super-villain or not, Vegeta _would_ become a resident of Capsule Corp. by the time the day was out. Only Goku and Piccolo had agreed that it would be best if Vegeta remained at Capsule Corp. long term, the latter making Bulma feel uneasy with an uncharacteristic smirk pulling at his lips. But she trusted Goku's judgement, more than she trusted her own, and knowing her best friend would never intentionally put her in harms way made inviting Vegeta into her home even easier. Vegeta himself had been surprisingly compliant, mumbling something about _no more pink_ under his breath, but otherwise putting up no struggle. Bulma had assumed it was because he simply had no-where else to go, a thought that had saddened her then and saddened her now, and this was probably the first time anyone had actively gone out of their way to invite him into their lives.

That hadn't made living with him any easier, and though he was infinitely more respectful to her than he was to any of the Z Fighters and she had started to consider him a friend of sorts, he still had an unfortunate habit of crawling under her skin with his cruel tongue and obnoxious attitude.

And now they'd been making out and dry humping on her kitchen floor like sex-starved teenagers, and she wasn't quite sure how to deal with this new turn of events.

“Shit, shit, _shiiiit._ ” Bulma hissed at herself, frowning at her dishevelled reflection. On the one hand she couldn't deny the electricity that had _surged_ through her body from the moment he'd touched her, demanding skin on skin contact, on the other hand... on the other hand he killed people for fun. How many civilisations had he brought to ruin? He'd been bragging about some of his conquests during their heart-to-heart. He had the blood of _millions_ on his hands, and he had no remorse. Most of the group had questionable pasts, and most of them had killed at _least_ a few people, but their crimes all paled in comparison to Vegeta's long list of wrongdoings. He was a monster, undeniably so, and Bulma felt her stomach plummet towards her feet. All of those innocent lives extinguished as easily as a flame on a candle, and she had pushed that all aside to rut against Death. Bulma had always considered herself a moral person, and this didn't sit right with her.

The bile bubbled and quaked within her again, and she had to still herself to avoid throwing up in her sink. Could she pass it off as a one time thing? Did Vegeta _want_ her in that way? In _any_ way? Did she want him, and, if so, could she forgive his cruel and poisonous past?

She peeled off her shorts and the over-sized shirt that once belonged to Yamcha, letting the discarded items pool at her feet, and turned towards the shower. Twisting the facets she let the water run for a few moments before stepping under the spray, washing away the stench of stale alcohol and sweat, feebly attempting to wash away her mounting shame and killer hangover. She didn't realise she was crying until a sob forced its way from between her lips, and her fingers curled against tiles.

When the water ran cold Bulma stepped out and pulled her hair into a bun, not even attempting to dry it, and walked back into her bedroom nude. Bulma grabbed a pair of sweats and another loose t-shirt, not having the energy or inclination to attempt anything more, and with a final huff, headed downstairs.

 

\--------

One of the dinosaurs in the menagerie roared at Vegeta through the glass, swishing it's tail in agitation as he passed. He scowled back at the creature, raising one of his hands, the tip of his index finger vibrating with the threat of a ki blast, before deciding against such an action. He quickened his pace, advancing from a jog to full blown sprinting. Sweat began to bead on the back of his neck, rolling down and soaking the white wife-beater he was wearing, making it cling uncomfortably to his skin. He hadn't slept, electing to focus on his training instead. At least, what he could manage. His hands were still royally fucked, and his temper tantrum aimed at the wall a few hours earlier had hardly helped matters. But he needed to work out his frustrations, to unleash the mounting agitation building within him. Mercifully, the hangover was light. Vegeta's body was well adapted to deal with toxins and poisons of all varieties, and a little alcohol was nothing in the grand scheme of things, and the alcohol on Earth was nowhere near as potent (and potentially deadly) as the stuff found off planet. But that unfortunately meant that Vegeta remembered _everything._ In excruciating, vivid detail.

 _He_ had kissed _her_. Vegeta, Prince of Saiyans, destroyer of worlds, warrior and commander in Frieza's army, had _kissed_ that lowly Earth woman.

Why?

Well, he knew why. The logical part of Vegeta's brain could connect the dots and crunch the numbers easily enough.

It had been a pretty long time since he'd experienced any sort of biological release. The last time he'd had any physical contact with another creature (that didn't evolve mortal wounds, or violence of some kind) had been during his brief stint in space prior to the lavender haired boy's arrival. There had been a full moon on the planet he was on (three of them, in fact), and a primal need had engulfed him. His skin had bristled, his whole body burning with adrenaline. Without the ability to transform into the Great Ape the pent up aggression collected until it bubbled and spat within him. He'd stalked the nearest bar, growling when he selected his prey, making quick work of 'seducing' her, which mostly involved growling at her until she quivered under his gaze. She was one of _those_ girls, the type that dropped their underwear for any creature with a semblance of power and control. She had been from the same species as Jeice, and as he'd rutted against her, chasing a release from the predatory energy rippling within him, his mind had drifted – if only for a second – back to Earth. He'd left her as soon as his desires were met, returning to his ship and punching in the co-ordinates of the shitty blue planet occupying his mind, deciding there and then to use the disturbing lack of fuel as an excuse for his return.

That had been _months_ ago, and Bulma had been the only other female he'd had regular contact with since then.

Bulma paraded around with an obnoxious confidence in herself and her body that drove him mad. She seemed to be under the impression that she was utterly irresistible, a fact she had made known to Vegeta on more than one occasion. She seemed to relish in evoking a reaction of some kind, either from him or from her former mate. She was certainly alluring, but Vegeta had tried desperately hard not to pay her any attention. Not only did he not want to giver her the satisfaction, but he had much more pressing matters to deal with. Such as rising to claim the Legend promised with his birthright, and training to destroy the androids inching closer with every passing day.

So of course his body would betray him in some way or another. He was a man, at least a slither of one, and during a momentarily lapse of self-control one of his more primitive urges arose to demand attention. Vegeta had no issue with that. The problem lay with that little blue-haired bitch. Her purring and moaning and begging for _him. Mmm, Vegeta._ _ **Don't stop**_ _,_ that's what she'd moaned as he ground himself against her. It was infuriating, the use of his name making things far too personal, too intimate. He usually fucked anonymously, or with those subordinate enough to know that calling him by his name was a death sentence. Bulma's husky pant of his name had been a harsh slap in the face, rousing him back to reality, and putting an end to things before they could really begin. He didn't have the time to fuck her. More importantly, he didn't want to.

Which is why Vegeta had found himself with his cock in his hand as dawn settled across the compound, in an attempt to release his freshly pent up frustrations, and on his forty-sixth lap around the grounds now the alcohol (and lust) was mostly out of his system.

He glared at her bedroom as he passed it, seething with hate, once again quickening his pace.

He _was_ going to ascend. He _was_ going to kill the androids, and then he _was_ going to beat Kakarot. Then, just for good measure, he was going to kill every single human that had ever dared to treat him like one of _them._ Slowly, painfully.

He was going to relish in their tortured screams, and then he was going to watch their world burn.

Vegeta tried to ignore the way his gut clenched at the thought of having to kill _her_ , and pushed on.

 

\--------

Bulma was nursing a sports drink and the greasiest grilled cheese she had ever made when her mother walked in, far too bright and cheery for her own good. Someone had cleared away her makeshift bar, the empty bottles recycled and anything still containing a lick of booze tucked away in its rightful place. She suspected it was probably one of the employees, perhaps even her father, and she was grateful for whoever had done the job because it meant she could avoid her mother's loaded comments about clutter around the home.

“Oh hello sweetheart, I take you had a heavy night.” Panchy's smile was met with a sneer from her daughter, Bulma unwilling to put on fake niceties while her insides raged war. Bulma grunted, taking a bite of her sandwich and trying to decide whether or not it eased or worsened the hangover. Panchy, unperturbed by her daughter's hostility, poured herself a cup of coffee and joined Bulma at the breakfast table, the legs of the chair screeching against the floor as the made herself comfortable. Bulma winced.

“If you're here to lecture me about drinking, please don't. I've already decided I'm never touching a drop ever again.”

“No, no. I'm just trying to make myself busy while your father potters around in the lab. You know, I always feel so useless when he's down there and I have nothing to do.”

“Uhuh,” Bulma muttered. Her mothers words hit closer to home than she would ever care to admit, her own restlessness growing day-by-day. She couldn't do much to help with the fight against the androids, and her presence on the front line was being requested less and less. She was becoming more of a hinderance than an aid, and it _killed_ her. She was used to being important, to having a purpose. Now she was floating, aimlessly at that, and she needed to find something to anchor her to friends once more.

“I bet you're feeling a bit low because of this messy Yamcha business, am I right?”

“Mom, stop.” Bulma said, rolling her eyes and picking at a cooling glob of cheese that had fallen from between the slices bread and onto the plate. “This has nothing to do with him. I just needed to cut loose.” _And blot out the possible world-ending nightmare that's heading our way._

“What you need is a nice man like Goku,” Panchy mused, propping her head up with her palms, elbows planted firmly on the breakfast table. Bulma snorted in response, a mixture of agitation and amusement. The older woman smiled. “No, I'm serious. Strong, brave, family man. Handsome, nice body.” She broke off in a dreamy sigh, as if imagining herself with the man young enough to be her son.

“Mother, I love Goku with all of my heart, but I think I can aim a little higher than that,” Bulma took another bite of her sandwich, mashing the greasy concoction between her teeth. “Besides, we broke up so recently, it wouldn't be right to try and date anyone else.”

“I just don't know how you stand it, being around all of these muscular, handsome men all day. If I wasn't married to your father, and if I were ten years younger, I'd love to take Vegeta out on a date.”

Bulma choked on her food, spraying breadcrumbs into the air. “ _Mother_.”

“A girl can look, right?”

“Yes, but not at _Vegeta,”_ Bulma could feel her face burning, and desperately hoped her mother wouldn't notice. Choosing to deflect, she added. “And only ten years younger? Try at least twenty.”

“What's wrong with Vegeta?” Her mother asked, either electing to ignore the latter comment, or oblivious to it. She _had_ to know, or at least suspect something. It couldn't be a coincidence, right? Surely not. Not after last night, not after a line had been crossed that could never be uncrossed. Had her mother been watching? Disturbed by their chatter, or the falling of chairs and bodies? _Fuck_.

Not one to be intimidated by _anything,_ Bulma pouted and attempted ignorance. “What's _right_ with him?”

“Well, he works hard, he's motivated, proud, he never gives up,” Panchy winked at her daughter, and Bulma gagged. “And he's easy on the eyes.”

 _Crap, she definitely knows_ _ **something**_. Bulma huffed, putting down the remains of her snack and crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “He's also a sadist, a murderer, an egomaniac, a sociopath, and an entitled, ungrateful asshole.” _But he's also kind of hot, and he hasn't killed anyone in a while, so there's_ _ **that**_ _. And his body feels good when it's grinding against mine. Very good._

“If you say so, dear.”

“I _know_ so.”

\--------

The next few days came and went with relative ease. Vegeta and Bulma were able to ignore one another, the latter retreating to the lab and bury herself in work, while the Saiyan returned to the Gravity Room, injuries be damned, in order to train. Bulma made a conscious effort to avoid the security monitors that focused on that particular part of the building, telling herself that she didn't care if he was stupid enough to get himself hurt or even killed, because he wasn't her problem, and she was fed up of cleaning up after him like some kind of servant. More often than not she found herself stealing glances at the screens anyway, cringing when she caught herself doing so, chastising herself for yet another momentary blip in sanity.

Through sheer force of will Bulma was able to make some progress with the new Saiyan armour she was working on, hitting a stride and making breakthroughs that helped abate her mounting insecurities. Soon enough she had a working prototype that was several times stronger than the armour Vegeta was currently using (and burning through at an alarming rate), and still as skin tight.

But as the week dragged on, Bulma began to find her mind wandering back to the egotistical prick of a housemate, and their drunken kiss. Though they were yet to come face to face with one another, he hung around in the periphery, on monitors and through windows, so he was never far from her mind. Which was still trying to process the fact that she had very nearly readily given herself to a monster that put every war-lord the Earth had ever seen to shame. The fact of the matter was Bulma missed Vegeta. Though he would deny it, they'd developed an uneasy friendship built on mutual loneliness, and now they had were just back to being lonely separately. She wanted to be near him in some capacity, but she still couldn't work out whether she simply wanted to save him from himself, or fuck him. Maybe even both.

Therein lay the root of Bulma's problem. She missed sex. Though their relationship was fraught with issues, and hardly the most adventurous when it came to carnal relations, Yamcha was very adept at scratching that particular itch. Now she didn't have Yamcha, didn't have _anyone_ who could satisfy her in that way, and so she was projecting her desires on the closest virile male. She needed to get laid. It would solve all of this, and she and Vegeta could go back to hurling insults at one another without the additional discomfort that their encounter had flamed. But she lived her life surrounded by physical perfection. The elite of the elite, the strongest warriors this world – and others – had to offer. Though most of her friends had been strictly tucked away in a 'look don't touch' box, her eyes had hungrily roamed their bodies with awe and admiration. They looked like sculptures, huge mountains of men who wore battle scars like medals of honour, and exuded raw sexual energy. Bulma had crafted unreasonably high standards for herself. So when she dragged herself out to bars with the Capsule Corp. employees and the Average Joe bought her a drink, or attempted to win her phone number, she couldn't help but draw comparisons between them and the chiselled Gods that orbited her like a goddamn moon.

Regular guys paled disappointingly in comparison to the likes of Yamcha, Tien, Goku and Vegeta, and it was driving her crazy. The latter had particularly dulled her interest in the 'every day' man of late, strutting around the compound like a shirtless peacock. He was all abs and pecs and deliciously tight glutes, always rippling with an unspent energy that left her vicariously pent up and only added to her sexual frustration.

“Bulma, you're going to have to give it to him at some point.”

Bulma choked. Her gaze snapped violently to her father, who was watching her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “What?”

“The clothes and the new prototype.” Her father looked pointedly at the bags of shopping that were sat collecting dust in the corner of the lab. They'd been getting in the way for ten days now, and apparently her father had decided enough was enough as she day-dreamed. He scratched at his chin. “Are you feeling okay, sweetheart?”

“Huh, me? Yeah I'm fine.” Her fingers groped at the pile of royal blue fabric on her cluttered desk. It was soft, the softest yet, and she hoped it would feel nice against Vegeta's badly abused skin. He seemed to like soft, though she supposed it was still a novel concept. Had anything in his life been soft before he fell to Earth? Bulma was soft. She was soft and warm and inviting, and everything Vegeta wasn't. Maybe that's why he kissed her.

“You look tired, that's all. I know you've been working hard lately. Maybe you need a break.”

“Hmm, maybe.” Bulma glanced at the clock on the wall. She'd been in the lab twelve hours already. No wonder her eyes itched and her mind raced. How long had it been since she'd had something decent to eat? Since she'd had more than a few snatched hours of sleep? She'd poured herself into this project in an attempt to remove herself from Vegeta, letting time rush by her. Her father's comments allowed herself to feel the weight of her exhaustion, and her shoulders sagged. “I think you're right, dad. I'm going to go to bed.”

“Take those with you and then give yourself a few days off. You're no good to anyone if you're too burnt-out to work.”

“Can't you take the goods to Prince Grumpy?”

“No,” her fathers voice was firm, as though he were reprimanding a child. “Your room is the closest. There's no sense in me going out of my way when you can do the same task with half the effort.”

Not having the energy to argue, nor the desire to explain to her father exactly why she had been avoiding the Saiyan, Bulma wished her father goodnight, and retreated bags in hand.

\--------

It was just after 10pm when the knock at his door roused Vegeta from a psuedo-meditative state. He'd been lying on the bed, bicep pressed to his forehead, recalling old stories that his father had told him in an attempt to crack the genetic code when knuckles met wood with three sharp raps. It was _her_ , the distinct fluttering ki giving her away along with the impatient repetition of the knock when he didn't immediately stir. He'd successfully dodged her for ten days, using his ability to sense her energy to his advantage and slipping in and out of the building whenever she was otherwise occupied. While it felt oddly cowardly, something within him that felt an _awful_ lot like shame necessitated it, and he felt somewhat better for not seeing her.

After the initial cool-down period where _all_ he could think about was her fragile little body wriggling needily below his own, thoughts of Bulma began to blissfully vacate, and he was able to better concentrate on his training and quest for supremacy. He almost forgot about the fact he kissed her, almost forgot about her strangely _arousing_ taunt of 'kill me', and he very nearly forgot what her hands felt like as they patched him up and called him her friend. Vegeta had remastered self-control, and it had only taken a handful of days.

She knocked again, using her fist this time, and before he could scream at her to fuck off and leave him alone, the door swung open.

Vegeta looked at Bulma, her features twisted in annoyance, and the illusion of self-control crumbled.

“What the hell are you doing in my room, woman?” Vegeta said, rising to his feet and balling his hands to his fists. They met in the middle of the room, both guarded, the atmosphere between the two of them the frostiest it had ever been. He wanted her. He wanted to bend her over and claim her. He wanted to leave her rejected and weeping. He wanted to leave her wanting more. His throat bobbed as he swallowed down the intrusive desires and thoughts.

“Here,” Bulma grumbled, thrusting a paper bag at him with on hand, and a pile of blue fabric at him with another. “New clothes, clean training suit. Go nuts.”

She had already turned on her heal to leave again when Vegeta caught her wrist, dropping the goods she'd presented him with to the ground in the process, anger flaring within him. He had prepared a long list of insults to tear the woman down, to convince her -and himself - that him kissing her was just a drunken fluke, but she was walking away before he could unleash any of them. That just wouldn't do.

“Get the hell off of me, Vegeta,” Bulma spat.

“That's not what you were saying before.”

It was juvenile and woefully _human,_ but the words rolled off of Vegeta's tongue before he could contain them. Bulma looked at him with undisguised disgust, fear and repulsion brewing together. It reminded Vegeta of their encounter on Namek, her eyes soft and needful when her gaze was pulled towards Zarbon, hard and sickened when it settled on him. It made him feel uncomfortable. She hadn't looked at him like that since he'd decided to temporarily settle on Earth.

“You're a monster,” she finally whispered, her voice trembling. “You've killed millions of innocent people and I... I kissed you like you were.... _normal_.”

“Billions.”

“What? Excuse me?”

“I've killed _billions_ of creatures. Entire planets. Entire solar systems.” It was a feeble attempt to clutch at the remains of his dignity, but it seemed to work. Bulma looked as though she was about to throw up.

She had lived with him for how long now, and she still didn't know that Vegeta was a creature born in and imbued with darkness? It was almost comical, and Vegeta would have probably laughed cruelly in her face under normal circumstances. But all he could think of was how it was _her_ rejecting him, and not the other way around. He was a _prince_ , yet she was acting as though he was the one below her. He released her wrist, turning away from her with a sneer to head towards his private bathroom. “Get the fuck out.”

“I liked it.”

Vegeta stilled, looking back over his shoulder. Bulma was still in the middle of the room where he had left her, clothes scattered at her feet, her head hung. His heart launched up into his throat.“What now, woman?”

Bulma's pretty face contorted in horror. “All those people you've killed... without any remorse. And I still... I still liked it when you kissed me. I wanted you to kiss me again.”

“Sh-shut up, idiot.” She was playing with him, she had to be. Vegeta hissed in indignation. “Touch me again and your planet will be the next I destroy.”

“You don't scare me.”

“Then you're a bigger moron than I initially thought.”

“I think I scare you.”

Vegeta whipped around to abuse her for such a baseless accusation, only to narrowly avoid slamming into Bulma. Somehow she had crept closer, past his guards, and they were less than a breath apart. She was so tantalisingly close, pupils blown and chest rising and falling with a suction of air that she was struggling to sustain. Something about the proximity of bodies set his nerves ablaze, frazzling circuits and blowing fuses. Vegeta snorted, but his body betrayed his bewilderment and uncertainty by sucking in a deep breath and shivering. “How could someone as puny as you are ever scare me?”

“You wanted me too, which is why you kissed me. You want me now. You don't like wanting me, and it scares you,” She said huskily. A pregnant pause stretched between them for a moment, and he watched as her eyes glided the length of his body. He was shirtless, and she was staring. His cocked twitched in his pants at the realisation. Lacking the fear and disgust of only a few moments before, when their eyes locked once more he saw only an anxious desire. Vegeta didn't know how to think, how to breathe, his body on lockdown and pinned by her gaze. He wanted to close the remaining distance, but he couldn't summon the strength to move. Finally, after what seemed like an age, Bulma pressed her lips against his with a foreign timidity, as if to gauge his reaction. When Vegeta didn't respond or shrug her off she grew a little bolder, putting a little more weight into the kiss. The dam of self-control split, and they were swept along with it, Vegeta's fists suddenly in her shirt, pulling her closer to him, Bulma's lithe little fingers hooked at the back of his neck.

She moaned into his mouth, one hand slipping down between them to stroke his length, already half-hard, through his shorts, shuddering in delight when he reciprocated her moan with one of his own. His brain was fried, and Vegeta was struggling to reconcile the desires of his body with thirty years of learned behaviours. All he knew is he wanted her, desperately, if only for this very moment. Whatever came next was inconsequential, and he would deal with the repercussions later. He tugged Bulma towards his bed, attempting to lift her shirt in the process, but refusing to break the kiss and make the job any easier. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and he let himself fall backwards, pulling Bulma on top of him in the process. She gasped, his erection now demanding full attention pressed between her open palm and abdomen , and Vegeta took the opportunity to kiss her more aggressively. Giving up on her shirt, Vegeta's hands refocused and regrouped at the waistband of her jeans. When he pulled down Bulma reared up, breaking the kiss and all physical contact.

The ephemeral dreamscape cracked and faded away. If Vegeta were a lesser man, he might have whimpered in protest.

“Not like this,” Bulma panted. Her legs wobbled as she clambered off of the bed, and Vegeta couldn't help but smirk at the sight, a faint pang of satisfaction nibbling at his insides. “I need to... think about some things first. But it will happen. If you want it.”

Vegeta's face flushed, and he could only muster a grunt in reply. Bulma smiled at him, the gesture disarmingly sweet, and left. Vegeta couldn't quite believe what had happened, switching from anger to lust in a matter of seconds, and then into isolation. It felt so all or nothing.

_But it will happen. **If you want it.** _

He was going to fuck her. It wasn't up for debate anymore.

It was only a matter of when.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read my work!  
> For more information regarding posting schedules, as well as my upcoming AU 'City of Stars', please check out my [Tumblr](http://myn-sii.tumblr.com/writing)


	5. An Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegeta and Bulma come to a mutual understanding after a very serious 'talk'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments I've been receiving! I know I've been a little slow replying (and writing the next chapter). Unfortunately I've had a family emergency to deal with, and someone close to me is extremely ill which has made finding the time to dedicate to writing/checking my messages difficult, but I do read every single one and appreciate them immensely! 
> 
> This was supposed to be published Saturday morning (my time), but due to the aforementioned emergency that won't be possible, so it's being uploaded a couple of hours early. 
> 
> As usual un-beta'd, so please don't hesitate to let me know if you spot any mistakes.

The realisation that he was going to have sex with the woman inwardly changed everything, while outwardly changing nothing. He trained until his muscles burned and his skin was slick with sweat. She squirrelled herself away in her lab until sunlight bled into twilight, and their routine continued as such. She'd patch him up if he needed it, he would demand she upgrade the materials provided for him. Life went on.

_You **want** me now. You don't like **wanting** me, and **it scares you.**_

Bulma would, to Vegeta's unending frustration, play pretend for the most part, as if they hadn't kissed – twice now – and she hadn't conditionally offered him her body in promise that kept him up at night wondering just what the hell he'd gotten himself into. As if she hadn't promised herself to a despicable creature such as himself.

_But it will happen. If you **want** it. _

Did he want to sleep with her? He'd never really been asked what he wanted, just told what to do and made to obey. He didn't _want_ to go with Frieza as a child. He didn't _want_ to destroy planets for Frieza to turn over and make a profit from. He didn't _want_ to be a prince – technically _king,_ as Raditz would like to point out – of a race of two and a half. He didn't _want_ to team up with Kakarot's brat and the bald one. All of his life he did things because he had to, not because he wanted to. To be actively asked, or at least told, that an event would only happen if he wished it so was... new. Strange. Kind of fucking great, actually.

It was making him sloppy.

The first time he'd noticed it he'd been eating his breakfast in the kitchen, while Bulma made herself coffee and a lunch to take down to the lab with her for later. They mostly ignored each other, or, at least they didn't speak. But she was the sole focus of Vegeta's attention, and he obsessively stared at her from behind his mountain of food, trying to work out her genius plan that apparently involved bedding one of the biggest monsters in the universe. She was a scientist, so he reasoned it could be practical. Their species were at least compatible enough to form hybrids, and to not raise overwhelming suspicion about Kakarot's true heritage, but there could be some base biological difference that she wanted to probe and explore. Did he want to be a science experiment? Did he want to have sex with someone who wasn't particularly interested in the act as a means of pursuing an orgasm and alleviating tension? Satisfying a partner had never been a focus before, but he had enough pride to warrant mutual consent as a prerequisite. Maybe she was trying to discover her weaknesses, so that the miserable band of 'fighters' she aligned herself with could take him down once the androids were dealt with.

“Oh, good morning Vegeta dear.”

The woman's mother interrupted his obsessive staring, and he offered her a grunt in return. He watched as the older Briefs woman went to her daughter's side, kissing Bulma's cheek as she poured herself a cup of coffee. They chatted inanely for a few moments, before the mother looked at her watch and frowned. “Vegeta, you're eating awful late, are you feeling okay? You're usually up and at 'em by now.”

Vegeta paused in his frantic chewing, swallowing down the lump of _something_ he'd been devouring with little focus, and craned his head to peer out of the window. Sure enough the sun was higher in the sky than usual, and a glance at the primitive earth on the clock on the wall confirmed that he was over an hour late in his routine. Bulma, that fucking _bitch_ had the audacity to smirk at him, the hint of a tongue peaking out of parted lips. Vegeta pushed himself up and away from the food, and after shooting Bulma the filthiest look he could manage, vanished into the Gravity Room until nightfall.

The second time he'd noticed it had been around 3am, several days later, as he was rummaging through the pantry for something to soothe his growling stomach, for once feeling satisfied with the day's workout. For the first time in months he felt confident in his ability to ascend, could see the jump between Saiyan elite and Legend, and the chasm between the two had never felt so small. He was going to do it, he was going to rise to claim that which had been promised to him. And then, when he had his enemies cowering at his boots, he was going to rule the galaxy. What would he do with the blue-haired bitch then? Would he still bed her? Would he still want to bed her, and would she want to bed him? He could have anyone in the cosmos, he wouldn't need her. Then again, who else did he have? He trusted her with his life, sincerely believed she had no designs to betray him or cause him harm, despite the fact many of those closest to her would have rather he'd stayed buried in that shallow grave on Namek.

Too lost in his thoughts he didn't see her, leaning casually against the counter, still in her mechanics jumpsuit, a smudge of grease across her cheek and in her hair.

“You know, it's polite to ask your host for permission before you help yourself to their food.”

He dropped the wheel of cheese he was holding and watched it roll away across the kitchen floor. She shouldn't have been able to get so close, he should have been on guard enough to sense her, to at least know she was there. But he'd been distracted. He'd been careless.

“I am a prince,” Vegeta said, forcing out the words through a suddenly parched throat.

“As if I could ever forget,” Bulma took a few steps towards him, stopping when they were only centimetres apart. Her mouth was tantalisingly close to his own, their breath mingling “You're so tense. You know, if you just _relaxed_ you'd probably see a bigger pay off in terms of training.”

“What do _you_ know of fighting?” He snarled. She had wounded his ego, and immediately he felt his satisfaction with the day's training crumble away.

“While I lack the ability to defend myself physically, I do have an excellent mind, among other things, and if you weren't so tightly wound there's a decent chance you'd surpass Goku.” Her fingers trailed his chest as she spoke, only ghosting over the flesh and not quite touching. Her face fell slightly as she traced the the circular scar above his heart, the physical reminder of the blast that had killed him, before she shook it off and smiled salaciously up at him. Something in the vast cavern of his chest squeezed uncomfortably, both at her display of concern, and at her suggestive grin.

_You **want** me now. You don't like **wanting** me, and **it scares you.**_

Vegeta wanted to lean in and kiss her again, to sink himself into her and just forget about androids and Kakarot and Legends for one night. He reached out his hand and, with a gentleness that was foreign to him, wiped away the grease stain from her cheek with his thumb. Her eyes widened, and her lips fell apart, leaning into the touch and raising her hand over his to clamp it in place. Their faces gravitated closer, lips just hovering apart, barely a whisper away from touching, when it happened.

His stomach growled, agonisingly loud, and Bulma fell away laughing.

“You Saiyans, all you care about is your next meal.” With a wink she was gone, out of reach and sauntering off and out of the kitchen, and Vegeta was left to stare at his now empty hands in amazement.

As the days rolled on Vegeta found himself stumbling into a new pattern, one of work outs and calorie guzzling and chasing a dream, but also one of desire just beyond his fingertips. Bulma made no mention of their previous altercations, and by extension neither did he. But their bodies seemed to be magnetised, inexplicably drawn to one another, craving an interlocking closeness that went beyond the controlled walls of their established relationship. Then, the moment they got two close, the polarities would shift, and they'd suddenly be repelled in different directions. If he didn't know better he'd think she was playing with him, dangling a promise out of reach so that he had two goals to pursue. But she was smarter than that, and he could sense that more often than not she was just as affected by his presence as he was by hers. He just couldn't figure out _why._

 _Why_ hadn't she made a move? _Why_ had she stopped him the first time? And _why_ did he care so much in the first place? _Why_ did he want _her?_

\--------

Bulma wasn't sure what had possessed her to proposition Vegeta. In all honesty she just hadn't been thinking; all the anger and disgust had melted away and all she could feel was the static electricity crackling between their bodies, and the warmth of his skin. She hadn't been lying when she said she needed time to think. Her mind was racing at a million miles an hour, and she needed to try and make sense of it all.

CON: Vegeta was an alien price of a warrior race genetically designed to obliterate entire planets with the flick of a single finger.  
CON: Vegeta was an unapologetic seasoned killer, one who happened to enjoy his profession, and expressed little to no remorse over his previous actions.  
CON: Vegeta and his men were responsible for the deaths of Goku, Piccolo (and, consequentially, Kami), Tien, Chiaotzu, and Yamcha, and very nearly the deaths of Gohan, Krillin and Yajirobe as well as every other living thing on the planet.

CON: Bulma couldn't decide whether or not Vegeta was a virgin. With his entire race slaughtered before he hit puberty, his general disinterest in activities that didn't concern fighting, training or eating, and his glaring discomfort every time she made lewd, or even slightly suggestive comments towards him in the past, there was a significant chance he'd never had a sexual partner before. Bulma had done a lot of crazy things in her life, but she wasn't sure she wanted 'de-flowering a thirty year old' to be one of them.

PRO: Bulma found Vegeta attractive, and if his previous responses were anything to go by, he at least somewhat reciprocated. The fact that he had been the one to initiate contact was a positive sign.  
PRO: Bulma was lonely, she suspected Vegeta was also lonely, and there was a decent chance they could stave off the ugly feeling together if only for a brief period of time.  
PRO: Vegeta hadn't killed anyone, to her knowledge, in at least a year, despite being the stronger now than he'd ever been in the past.  
PRO: Vegeta had given his life to help her friends on Namek, and she suspected that his death had killed off much of the monster and left more of a man in its place.  
PRO: Bulma had a penchant for bad boys. Admittedly, Yamcha's list of crimes was nowhere near as vast and bloody as Vegeta's, but he was hardly a saint, and her list of passing fancies happened to include a lot of people who strayed on the wrong side of the morality meter.  
PRO: Vegeta had a body sculpted by the Gods themselves.

Bulma gazed forlornly at the lists, trying to decide if the pros of entering a sexual relationship with the violently unstable descendant of alien royalty could really outweigh the cons, and retrieved the pen from behind her ear to underline the first and last points of the 'pro' list twice.

Bulma audibly yelped when she heard someone knock at her bedroom door, and not waiting for Bulma to give her approval before opening it, Bulma's mother poked her head inside. Grabbing the pieces of paper, Bulma hurriedly crumpled them and tossed them at her wastepaper basket with the mountain of scrapped capsule designs and training drone prototypes. “Sure mother, come right on in. It's not like I'm a grown woman in need of privacy, is it?”

Her mother only smiled, not discouraged by Bulma's attitude. “Oh I'm sorry sweetheart, I just wanted to let you know we have some guests waiting for you downstairs.”

“Guests?” As far as Bulma was aware she wasn't expecting anyone, either socially or professionally.

“Oh yes dear. Why don't you come and see for yourself?”

Curiosity got the better of her and she trailed her mother down the winding halls of the compound, chewing over possibilities in her her head. When her mother led her to the living room and she was confronted by her mystery intruders Bulma's stomach sank. She tried to breathe but her lungs refused to cooperate.

“B, you changed your hair again. I like it."

“Yamcha?”

Bulma blinked, just be sure that what she was seeing was real, and not just a mirage that would fall away the moment she averted her gaze. Sure enough, Yamcha was splayed on the couch, wearing his glaringly orange gi, looking tired and anxious, but entirely _real._ It took an additional few seconds to notice Krillin sat beside him, similarly dressed but lacking any signs of fatigue or stress.

“Yamcha, Krillin... what are you guys doing here?” Bulma asked, her voice hoarse. She took a step towards them and then stopped herself, unsure of what her next move should be.

“ _Someone_ ,” Krillin began, gesturing to Yamcha with his thumb, “hasn't stopped talking about you. So I thought, being the wonderful and unselfish friend that I am, I'd bring you back together and clear the air.”

After shooting Krillin a look of pure annoyance, Yamcha rose to his feet, awkwardly scratching the back of his head and clearing his throat. He stood opposite Bulma, staring at her with a longing that made her soul ache, and as if connected somehow they broke through the tension simultaneously and rushed at one another. The resulting hug was almost violent; hands fisting in clothes, arms squeezing tight enough to constrict airways. Bulma could hear Krillin chuckling somewhere behind her, an echo outside of the little bubble that momentarily shielded her and Yamcha from everything else. Several minutes passed before they finally pulled apart, both wiping at glossy eyes self-consciously.

“I thought you didn't want to see me anymore?” Bulma asked with a sniff.

“As if I could function without my best friend.” Yamcha visibly winced as he spoke, clearly struggling with the new parameters of their relationship, but it was a far cry from the pained expression he wore the last time they were face to face. It helped to appease her guilty conscience, and she playfully shoved at his shoulder with the ball of her palm.

“You're an idiot and I've missed you,” Bulma said. Bursting the bubble, or at least granting Krillin entry into their little world, she added in his direction, “I thought you guys were _so_ busy training that you had no time for little old me?”

Krillin grinned. “Yeah, well, you know what they say. 'All work and no play'. Besides, I think Roshi wanted to the place to himself for a while, and I was too scared to ask why.”

\--------

After they'd reacquainted themselves with one another, the trio had made their way to the gardens, outstretched on the grass like teenagers around a campfire. They had talked and laughed, the years melting away, resurrecting carefree memories of a time where their imminent deaths hadn't been so certain. The loneliness that had gripped Bulma so painfully hard over recent months slackened its hold, and though she was painfully aware of the absence of her oldest friend, she was content enough with Krillin and Yamcha's company. They ate, picking at the miniature picnic Bulma had hurriedly prepared shortly after their arrival, and when they had their fill Krillin and Yamcha had started sparring in an attempt to show off.

It had all been going so well, and then _he'd_ shown up.

Bulma suspected the power levels had given the intruders away, and when Vegeta emerged from his Gravity Room looking frustrated and confused, her stomach plummeted to her feet. Immediately his hard gaze had snapped to her, pinning her in place, feeling alarmingly accusatory when it flashed between her and her ex-boyfriend, who currently had Krillin in a headlock. It had taken Krillin and Yamcha a little while to notice the Saiyans presence (a fact which brought forth a fresh wave of anxiety within Bulma, worrying about their readiness for the android's arrival) but when they did they quit their play fighting and returned to Bulma's side, the mood soured.

In truth she had forgotten about Vegeta, about the unspoken _thing_ that was brewing between them. She'd been so excited due to the impromptu reunion that all thoughts of anything else had slipped her mind. Seeing him while being in the presence of her friends stirred an uncomfortable discontent, knowing that neither Krillin or Yamcha would approve about their previous dalliances and the implication of their last encounter. They wouldn't understand, nor would they try to understand. Vegeta was not one of them, not in their eyes, and the only person who went out of their way to accept Vegeta was Goku, and he was nowhere to be seen. Even then Bulma wasn't sure if Goku would approve of her sleeping with Vegeta, especially so soon after her breakup with Yamcha. The threads of their social circle were intricately woven, and pulling too hard in any direction would unravel the entire tapestry.

Now Vegeta was watching all three of them, wiping his undoubtedly sweaty brow with a towel before tossing it onto the floor and downing a whole two litre bottle of water in what appeared to be a single gulp. He then resumed his katas, the fluidity of his movements and the sheer strength rippling beneath hardened skin making Krillin and Yamcha's impressive athleticism look like lackadaisical playtime in comparison. By sheer _coincidence_ he had elected to continue the remainder of his training _outdoors,_ a safe enough distance away from the humans as to avoid too much suspicion, but close enough to keep an eye on things. A hopeful flutter thought it was to keep an eye on _her._

“Man, he still gives me the creeps.” Krillin said with an exaggerated shudder, taking slice of pizza (the leftover evidence from one of Bulma's all-nighters in the lab) and taking a bite. “I wish he'd just buzz off already.”

Bulma looked at Vegeta, aware that he could probably hear every word due to his heightened senses, a twang of pity knotting in her stomach. “C'mon Krillin, he's not that bad. You said yourself that you guys would have been screwed without his help on Namek.”

“Yeah well, self-preservation isn't a good enough reason to trust him.”

“The only reason we trust Piccolo is because he sided with us against Vegeta. And Piccolo stole our dead friend's baby. Vegeta did not.”

“No, Vegeta just tried to kill the kid,” Yamcha interjected sourly. “I don't know how you can stand to be in the same house as the guy, Krillin's right, he's creepy. We should have just left him in that shallow grave, it's what he deserves.”

“He's my _friend._ If I can trust him and Goku trusts him, why can't you guys at least give him a shot? Except for Goku he's probably our best shot at beating the androids, and _he's_ been my only company for months while everyone else went off and abandoned me.”

Vegeta visibly stiffened, and stilled his movements. He collected his few possession and stalked off, pointedly ignoring the group. Yamcha and Krillin noticed, but didn't seem put off or suspicious, their eyes following him back to the Capsule Corp. building only instinctually, and not due to any real curiosity. Bulma, on the other hand, squirmed, her insides knotting.

“Yeah, well I wouldn't be so sure. Krillin and I have put a lot of work in, and from what I hear Tien and the others haven't exactly been slacking off either,” Yamcha continued prattling on about his brand new training regime, and Bulma made the appropriate noises when required to feign interest. But her attention was drawn towards home, to the retreating Saiyan. She knew she was wasting precious time with her friends, unsure of when she'd see them again next, but she couldn't help herself. After all, she tried to reason, Vegeta had been the one to comfort her, in his own gruff way, after her breakup with Yamcha, and during their late night drinking session. She owed him her attention.

“I'm gonna go grab some more drinks,” She said after an appropriate period of time had passed, trying to disguise the eagerness in her voice.

“Sure,” Krillin replied, nonplussed. He turned to Yamcha, motioning with his head to the empty space of yard that was now unoccupied. “Wanna go another round?”

“You bet, man. No holding back this time.”

Bulma left the two of them as they engaged in another fight, for once thankful that neither of them had offered to help her. Her feet felt heavy, her pace slightly too fast. She had the sinking feeling that the comments Krillin and Yamcha made had struck a nerve with Vegeta, and pushing her sexual desires aside Bulma did sincerely care about the Saiyan prince. He had little else in his life, no-one else to stand in his corner (though admittedly he didn't always deserve someone defending him), and she felt somewhat responsible for any offence caused. She should have tried harder to disengage the conversation, been more vocal about his positive qualities. Something. Anything.

“I thought you tossed the beta-male aside.” Bulma jumped when Vegeta stepped forward from the shadows, as though appearing from thin air, completely expressionless. He adopted his usual defencesive stance, arms crossed, shoulders raised, and looked her up and down, his gaze drifting momentarily to Yamcha and Krillin, before alighting on her once more. “But it seems this particular cockroach has managed a second infestation.”

“Fuck. Vegeta, you scared the shit out of me,” Bulma said, clutching her heart in what was mostly a mock gesture. He narrowed his eyes at her, clearly not buying it.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“That idiot over there. I assume you two are resuming your relationship?” Vegeta's face contorted in disgust as he spoke, his nostrils flaring. “Which is why he and the bald one have come crawling back. I thought I'd finally be rid of them...”

“No,” Bulma said slowly, clutching her wrist. “They just popped by to say hello. It gets pretty lonely being stuck here all by myself, you know.”

Vegeta huffed, his annoyance visibly mounting. “So you were toying with me, woman?”

“Toying with you? I don't...” Bulma trailed off, the lightbulb flickering in understanding. She felt the grin take over before she could stop it, and she puffed out her chest triumphantly. “Oh my God, are you _jealous?”_

Vegeta spluttered, his face turning scarlet. “I am not jealous, I have no reason to be jealous. But if you are playing some sort of game, and attempting to ridicule me I want no part of it.”

“Wait, what? Why would you think I'm ridiculing you?”

“Come on, propositioning me one night and then making no mention of it again. Acting as though we didn't...” He trailed off, the blush deepening. Had he not been Vegeta, Bulma might have found it cute. “Taunting me. You're smart, but I'm a soldier. I know mind games, I am an expert at them.”

Anger flared within Bulma. As far as she was aware she'd been nothing but kind and accommodating to Vegeta, going beyond what was necessary to ensure his comfort. Even when he friends warned her against doing so. Now he had the audacity to claim she was treating him like a plaything, as if she hadn't spent the last twelve months bending to his every whim with only a little resistance. “Well maybe you're not as good at them as you think because goddammit Vegeta, I _like_ you. I think you're a pig-headed ass and you've done things that make my skin crawl, but I also think you're attractive and brave and you have the potential to do incredible things. The reason I didn't just strip off and scream 'take me' was because I needed some time to think.”

“To think?”

“Yes, to think. Clearly an alien concept,” Bulma took a deep breath to steady herself and diffuse the situation. “I needed to think about what I wanted. I like that we've become friends – and I swear to Kami if you say we're not friends I will find a way to end you myself - but I cannot deny that I am attracted to you, and have been for far longer than I care to admit. I don't want to screw up our friendship, your _only_ friendship, by crossing that line. I also had to ask myself if I could live with myself, with the knowledge and the guilt that I _want_ someone who has taken so many lives... but most of all I had to figure out if you actually wanted me too. Because I don't want you to sleep with me just because you're vulnerable and frustrated about the androids and being a Super Saiyan and all that other bullshit. It wounds my pride and it feels wrong. Like I'm taking advantage of you.”

“Tch.”

“I pour my soul out, and all you have to say is 'tch'?”

Finally, slowly, Vegeta's arms uncurled, dropping to his sides. “I can assure you that any...arrangement would be mutually beneficial. Though you shouldn't worry about taking advantage of me., it's a wasted effort. And that's never concerned anyone in the past.”

“Well I'm not those people. I care about you, Vegeta. That's what real friends do, they care, and I happen to be an excellent friend.”

“So, this,” Vegeta whispered, his mouth suddenly at her ear, She hadn't even seen him move, and now he was pressed against her. His skin slick with sweat, droplets still beading and rolling down the vast expanse of his chest and back, catching on scars and slowing in their descent. “is something you do with _all_ of your friends?”

It was Bulma's turn to blush. “NO. God no, I just--”

Vegeta pulled away, and the smirk told her than he was teasing her. She'd normally be pissed, but Vegeta's attempts at friendly (or unfriendly) humour were few and far between, so she decided to take it. Not to mention there was something endearing about the almost boyish upturn of his lips, a sparkle in his eyes that was usually buried beneath the darkness shrouding his existence. It contrasted so starkly with his stoic nature and the serious profile of his face, as if there were two men sharing a singular body; wearing a mask to preserve their identities and fighting for dominance as to who would put it on today. Emboldened by his closeness and attempts at provocation and jocularity, Bulma placed a hand on his neck, manoeuvring his head back towards her own. His skin was hot, scorching beneath her fingertips, the thrum of his pulse dancing erratically at her touch. “Meet me tonight, in my room.”

Vegeta's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, pupils, already barely discernible from the onyx of his iris', swelling to engulf flecks of colour in undisguised need. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, the motion mesmerising Bulma. She felt powerful, able to reduce one of the most powerful beings in the entire galaxy to a quivering mess of desire at her touch. When one of his own giant hands came up to mirror hers, gripping her neck so gently she thought it must have pained Vegeta to exercise such self control with someone as fragile as she was, he finally spoke.

“When?”

It was getting increasingly difficult to speak now that Vegeta was touching her. Bulma closed her eyes, trying to regather her thoughts but melting even further into the touch. She could hear Vegeta shifting, and then his lips were at her throat, the hand on her neck pulling her head back to expose more of her to him. Despite herself, Bulma's knees buckled.

“I asked you a question, woman,” Vegeta growled, nipping lightly. The tables had turned, Vegeta had regained control, and now it was her turn to come undone. Her vocabulary narrowed tremendously, desperately groping for the words fleeing from reach. She couldn't think, her focus swayed towards hot, groping fingers and fluttering lips ghosting the expanse of her throat. Krillin and Yamcha were in sight, all it would take was for one of them to glance in her direction and they'd see Vegeta and Bulma in a very compromising position.

“Vegeta...” What started as a statement of protest ended in a strangled moan, Vegeta's teeth sinking deeper into her throat, threatening to leave a mark if he increased the pressure by too much more.

“You have toyed with me for long enough. It would do you well to answer a prince when he speaks to you,” Vegeta said again, firmer this time, his fingers tightening slightly. The pressure sent a thrill down Bulma's spine, pooling in her stomach, and she couldn't control the moan that fought its way outwards. His other hand found the small of her back, slipping lower to cup her bottom and then issuing her with a single, sharp slap. Bulma gasped, trying to stifle a cry of pleasure.,her underwear growing uncomfortably wet. “Perhaps I should punish you for disobeying me?”

“ _Fuck,”_ Bulma hissed. Exercising self control she didn't know she possessed, Bulma somehow peeled herself away from the Saiyan, her jellied limbs barely supporting themselves. The auspicious grin Vegeta wore telling her all she needed to know, all questions she may have had regarding the prince's possible virginity had been answered. His talents _clearly_ extended far beyond the confines of the battlefield. The list of reasons to push him away and squash fantasies of writhing bodies was rapidly dwindling, and for the first time Bulma was able to acknowledge that list or no list, they were undoubtedly destined to stumble down this path. “Midnight. Meet me at midnight.”

\--------

11.54pm.

The arrival of her former mate had only fuelled to fire in his loins, igniting a fresh possessiveness that he hadn't thought himself capable of. Restraining himself until they left had proven to be more difficult than expected. Hours ticked by, their presence becoming increasingly infuriating, and it was all he could do not to confront them head on and blast them in the chest to get them out of his hair so he could enjoy the woman in peace. They'd lingered and lingered, and he'd heard the woman throwing them out a few hours earlier, citing exhaustion and promising to make an effort to go to Kame House and see them soon. Relief and satisfaction had flooded Vegeta then.

But now he was stood outside her door, feeling awkward and frustrated, unsure as to whether he could summon the courage to rap his knuckles against the wooden frame.

_You **want** me now. You don't like **wanting** me, and **it scares you.**_

Did he want her? Did he want anything other than power and to surpass the lowly third-class _monkey_ who had somehow achieved the Legend before him.

_But it will happen. If you **want** it. _

Swallowing his pride and the lump in his throat, Vegeta tapped his knuckles against the door.

“Come in.”

His hand pushed down on the handle and he crossed the threshold. He'd been in her room before, usually to sling insults her way or growl demands, but he'd never paid it much attention. It had always been background noise, just another aspect of this planet to dutifully ignore because it didn't serve him to pay it any mind. But now he couldn't stop himself, sweeping over the landscape of her quarters as if seeing it for the first time. Candles flickered and burned on the dresser, casting shadows across the darkened walls, permitting just enough light to encapsulate them both in a warm glow. The rest of the room was messy, an organised chaos of clothes and magazines and blueprints scattered across every available surface, fragments of herself littered carelessly about like the curling edges of freshly shed reptilian skin. It reminded Vegeta of a planet just after purging, an homage to a former existence, relics of what once was shattered by his hand, and it ignited something within him that had been buried in recent months. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and his lungs began to inflate with an excited burning that was reminiscent of the anticipation before a bloody battle. For a split second he lost himself, and that was enough to find himself seized by a creature that was not quite Vegeta, but achingly similar. When his gaze lifted to Bulma his body made a guttural noise of its own volition – a cross between a purr and a growl – his lips upturning in a ravenous grin. If he still had a tail it would be frizzing, his chest heaving as he greedily sucked in air, mind racing.

She was wearing a sheer robe of sorts which did little to obscure the black lacy bra and panties she wore underneath. She fiddled with the belt of the robe, the motion stirring old memories of whorehouses on far away planets, where the women would parade around in such garments in an attempt to woo a punter. He'd scoffed then at Nappa and Raditz's foolishness, at their willingness to lose themselves in a creature that treated _all_ of it's prospective clients in that regard. But the woman's focus was singular, on him only and not the potential well of credits in his pocket, and Vegeta suddenly felt incredibly overdressed, his clothes suffocating.

He felt like the mighty Oozaru, an animal working on primal instinct alone, and as much as he tried to reign in the beast, it refused to obey. After a second of hesitation Vegeta gave in, allowed himself this one reprieve, and stalked towards the human woman in front of him. He had never taken a woman immediately after a purge, never relished in the ruins of his latest conquest. Though it would normally demean him to do so, he could play pretend now. Could close his eyes and act as though he had succeeded during his initial visit to the planet, that the wreckage of her room was the wreckage of her home world and they were the only two living creatures in existence, relishing in the chaos. Perhaps they wouldn't even have to pretend. If _they_ ever found out that she bedded a creature such as himself the dynamic between the group would be irrevocably changed. Most of them hated him, her former mate in particular, and the bonds she'd established would decay like corpses on the battlefield. Vegeta would make Bulma his amongst the smoking ruins of her life, fracturing the connection to her friends with one swift thrust as he entered her.

“I could kill you.”

It wasn't a threat, merely an observation. One wrong move and he could snap her in half, her bones splintering from even the smallest misstep. He needed her to realise the weight of their altercation, needed to remind himself of it too. He was going mad at the sight of her, but he needed to give her a way out, an opportunity to escape before they crossed an invisible line between them.

“You should probably work on your dirty talk.”

“I'm being serious, woman.”

“I know. But if Goku can manage it, so can you. You have a lot more control over yourself than he does.”

Vegeta's heart was racing, so much so that he didn't mind too much that Bulma had brought up Kakarot. The scent of her skin was intoxicating, and he was hyper aware of throbbing veins and a stammering heart that ached for him to reach out and touch her. He wanted her to shut up, wanted her to submit to him there and then, but she wasn't done.

“Just sex. That's all it is,” Bulma said quietly, still fiddling with the belt. “You have an excess of energy that you need to burn through, I'm single with high standards, and we're both adults with desires.”

“Tch. As if I'd want anything more than sex from you.”

Bulma smirked in victory. “So you're finally admitting out loud that you want to have sex with me?”

For a fleeting moment Vegeta considered a shitty remark, an insult or put down to remind her of her place, but he abandoned all such thoughts instantaneously. Instead, his chest rumbled again and he swept her up into his arms, throwing her onto the bed and caging her body beneath his own.

“Shut up, woman.”

One of Bulma's hands found its way to Vegeta's shorts, dipping under the fabric, but planting itself teasingly on his upper thigh. His cock twitched at the proximity, begging for attention, but her fingers remained resolute, and made no effort to touch.

“ _Make me.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what's going to happen in the next chapter? ;)
> 
> I’m so honoured to announce that my fic [City of Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282903/chapters/27919710) has been nominated for The Prince and The Heiress 2017 Annual Awards’ ‘Best of the Undiscovered’ category, so feel free to check that story out between updates (the next chapter of that fic is 70% complete).
> 
> I'm always happy to chat with fellow DBZ/Vegebul fans on my [Tumblr](http://myn-sii.tumblr.com/writing), and I also regularly update chapter progress/information on there.


	6. Nodus Tollens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than usual, but that's because it's … lacking in plot, so to speak. Thank you to those of you who review my work, they honestly make my day, and I treasure every single comment. 
> 
> As usual this chapter is un-beta'd, so if I've made any mistakes please don't hesitate to bring them to my attention so I can fix them!

“Make me.”

Her words seemed to light a fire within Vegeta that he was no longer able to control and Bulma couldn't help but yelp in fear when his hands found her underwear and tore clean in two.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, her breath catching in her throat when blue met jet black. He was panting like a wild animal, staring at her as though he wished to devour her rather than sleep with her. Usually stoic and solid, his body was now quivering, bristling with anticipation. Like a prowling big cat Vegeta's nostrils were flaring, lips agape and head rolling ever-so-slightly side to side, occasionally ducking down to nip at the air just above her flesh. This Vegeta was a far different creature than the one she'd come to know, different still from the man she'd watch taunt and kill her friends so long ago it felt like another lifetime. He'd never looked less human, the difference in their species suddenly glaringly obvious.

It was alarmingly erotic.

She hadn't expected him to come; almost half-hoped that he _wouldn't_ simply because she wasn't fully prepared for the ramifications if he did. Sure, Krillin and Yamcha had unexpectedly supplied (very briefly) with social interaction that day, but it had been weeks, or even months, since the last time she was most of her friends. Her parents quite rightly occupied themselves with their own work, with their own lives that took them out and away from Capsule Corp for stretches, and so Vegeta was her only company. Even if they argued most of the time, or she whined at him as she patched up his heartbreakingly broken body and he called her names. It was... _nice._ If they crossed this line there was a significant chance that she'd lose that, that he'd clam up and shoot off into space – Goku and androids be damned – or _she_ would struggle to look him in the eye, knowing she'd done what she'd done, knowing that _he'd_ done what _he'd_ done.

But the truth of the matter was they were both painfully broken things, so lonely and fragmented in their own ways.

Bulma could see it in his eyes, in the yearning, animalistic _need_ that haunted inky depths. She'd seen it for months, in the jumpy way he'd isolate himself, in the plaintive way he'd stare at her and her family, her friends, when he thought no-one was looking. The overwhelming _confusion_ momentarily screwing up his features when he'd watch her and her family laugh and enjoy themselves, as if the concept was so foreign to him that it was simply impossible for him to wrap his head around.

And yet _he_ had tried to comfort _her_. Allowed her to rant and talk and spill her guts on more than one occasion, taking it all quietly without making her feel as though she were an annoyance, or a spoiled little princess, or being set up for a cruel fall. Yes, he was gruff, but he'd _tried._

Because he knew she was broken in her own way too.

With a crushing need to _touch_ him, to assuage their mutual displacement and misery if only for a snatched night, Bulma leant up to crush her mouth to his, Vegeta's lips parting immediately, his tongue darting out to claim and explore. The hand still buried in his shorts inched its way closer towards her prize, but to her surprise she _felt_ a growl building deep in Vegeta's chest long before she heard it, a quiet warning to cease whatever she was doing. She stilled her hand once more and the vibrations stopped. Breaking the kiss Bulma looked up at him curiously, catching the last remnants of what looked like uncertainty and _fear_ flittering across his features. The scientist in her insisted that she test her theory, and she inched her fingers closer once more, only to be met with another growl and a hot, hard hand on her forearm.

“ _No._ ”

Bulma blinked in surprise, retracting her hand in confusion. Vegeta's hand left her forearm and began to explore the length of her body instead, tracing the outline of her breasts – still caged in lace – dipping over the flat of her stomach, before alighting between her thighs. Instinctively Bulma's legs fell apart, and she felt a thick, hot finger tracing her entrance.

Vegeta looked at her carefully, his breath mingling with hers as they panted. “Woman, you've done a good job at attending to my needs throughout the duration of my stay here. Let me look after yours.”

Bulma gasped as he slipped the digit inside, both at the intrusion and at Vegeta's uncharacteristic selflessness. She suspected, probably quite rightly, that his preference of 'touch, but not be touched' was less than altruistic, but as he pumped his finger in and out of her – tantalising slowly – she couldn't bring herself to question it. Her head lolled back, eyes slipping shut as he continued his ministrations; his head bent and buried in the crook of her shoulder, inhaling deeply and laving on the flesh he found there. She was already so wet, had been since he'd ravaged her in the gardens only metres away from her friends, from her ex-boyfriend, and the primal way he'd looked at her when he'd first entered her room had only added to her arousal. The finger curled and Bulma's toes curled with it, her back arching up off of the bed.

“I could destroy your world with a flick of this finger, very nearly did, and now it has you moaning in pleasure,” Vegeta crooned, a wicked grin stealing across his face. Bulma whimpered, overstimulated by his voice, by his clever hands, by the imposing heat of his body. “Worlds are not the only thing I can break.”

“Vegeta, _please._ ”

“What a disgustingly lewd little creature.”

Finally – after what felt like an age of being teased – Vegeta added a second finger, nipping her skin as he did so. His fingers curled with expert precision, finding the sweet spot that had Bulma clenching at the sheets, and moving in a rhythm that was bringing her dangerously close to the edge in a timeframe she'd never thought possible. Bulma whined and wailed, rolling and grinding her hips against the palm of his hand, the wet slap of skin-on-skin floating about them, mingling with her exhilarated cries in the humid air. When Vegeta's thumb joined the fray, circling her clit deliciously and added just enough pressure to keep her dangling on the periphery of an orgasm, and not enough to send her tumbling over the edge, Bulma thought she just may melt into the sheets.

“Oh Kami, _right there_ ,” she keened despite herself, rolling her hips into his hands; urging him to work her harder, to finish her off. “Oooh, Vegeta. _Don't tease me._ ”

Vegeta laughed, a deep and throaty sound that shuddered through her own body. Indicating he was clearly enjoying dominating her, enjoying the power of withholding her pleasure. “All in good time. I know what I'm doing.”

Something in the statement, although fully intending to be playful and arousing from it's velvety tone, hit Bulma's ear wrong, and she felt the mood instantly sour. He was speaking from experience, an established skill that he'd practiced for years. She'd always just assumed, because he was brash and easily flustered and driven by the singular focus of a good battle above all else, that _he_ would be the inexperienced of the pair. Apparently she was wrong.

Bulma Briefs hated being wrong.

Vegeta had an unfortunate habit of turning the tables on her, not content until he was winning the battle of dominance, and it seemed sex was no exception. Bulma was swept up in a sudden rush of fear; her _only_ sexual partner was Yamcha, and while she had no complaints she also wished she had a larger breadth of experience to draw upon, She felt awfully naive and incompetent, not knowing how to satisfy anyone who wasn't her childhood sweetheart. Maybe that's why he'd refused to let her touch him? Could he tell? Did he not trust her ability to bring him pleasure?

She couldn't shut her mind off, the scientist in her wondering just how many women he'd bedded, and how many of those aligned with Earth's standards of female. Would she look odd in comparison to his previous partners? Would he find her a turn off? Oolong had, once upon a time during a alcohol induced rant about the inter-species pleasures of the body insisted a hole was a hole, and that it didn't really make a difference. Somehow the memory didn't offer her any comfort. She hadn't wanted him to be a virgin, but now knowing he wasn't, falling apart thanks to his skilled hands, something dark and ugly had seized her, and her own potential inadequacies felt glaringly obvious.

The chasm between the two of them was much bigger than she had originally led herself to believe, and it strangled her.

“Woman, is there something wrong?” He asked against her throat, his tone surprisingly gentle. It lacked all the usual hardness that made Vegeta... well, Vegeta, instead possessing a quality that could almost be called compassion. It was a whisper, a genuine question he wished to know the answer to, and it focused on her well being. Despite her irrational fears, despite the growing anxiety, Bulma couldn't help but feel a flutter of warmth at the sentiment. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself a moment ago.”

“I...” Bulma started, but then caught herself. Embarrassed. She scrambled for the words, for a context that Vegeta would understand. “I feel... weak.”

Vegeta chuckled, and Bulma was startled by its sincerity. It wasn't malicious or mocking, it was a noise of real amusement. “You are always weak, but I thought you did not fear me.”

“I don't mean physically, I mean...” Vegeta's fingers curled inside her again as she spoke, and for a split second Bulma was on the viewing platform of their ship again, gazing out into the cosmos on their journey to Namek. A moan shuddered through her body, eliciting another amused noise from the Saiyan. When she was able to gather her thoughts again, Bulma continued. “I mean... you've had more women than I've had men, and I feel... inadequate.”

 _That_ caused Vegeta's hand to not only still but to retract from its home between her thighs, and he pulled his head back to look at her. Absently he placed his glistening fingers to his lips, popping them into his mouth one at a time and sucking. Even in her irrationally agitated state Bulma couldn't help the heat that immediately rushed between her legs at the sight. “Surely not.”

“How many women have you had?”

“Only two, three dozen at most. Even less if you count only those who share physical resemblances to our species.”

Two or three _dozen._ And the way Vegeta spoke suggested that he thought this was a small number. Perhaps it was for Saiyans. Perhaps Goku was the exception and not the rule when it came to monogamous sex. Perhaps Saiyans were biologically wired to fuck as abundantly as they fought. Bulma found herself laughing too, but it lacked the mirth of Vegeta's. It was strained, imbued with a nervous energy she just couldn't shake. “Yeah, well for me it's only ever been Yamcha.”

Vegeta wrinkled his nose at the mention of Yamcha's name, but he held his tongue and Bulma had to admire him for that. Yamcha ranked highly on Vegeta's list of things he hated about the planet, perhaps only second to Goku's innate ability to best him in spite of the strict rules of the Saiyan hierarchy. “Maybe that's why you're so annoying. You simply need to experience a true alpha male.”

Bulma would have normally laughed at such a statement, had it not been for the fact that the head of Vegeta's cock was suddenly nudging against her, one of his hands locking her parted legs to the bed. She hadn't even noticed him take off his shorts, too lost in his hand and then in her head to have paid attention. Whatever or whenever the answer, he was now hot and hard between her thighs, demanding entry. Bulma tried to make a noise of protest, a demand for condoms or _something_ , but he silenced her with his lips before she could utter a word, thrusting into her the moment their mouths met and greedily swallowing a whimper of pleasure.

“Let me show you what it's like to be fucked by a real man.”

_Thank Kami she was on birth control._

She felt so painfully _full,_ every nerve ablaze in trembling delight at the new sensation. What he lacked in height he clearly made up for in _other_ ways, and for a paralysing moment she worried that this just wouldn't work. Every muscle ached – for less of him, for _more_ of him, her body just couldn't decide. Then, little by little her body relaxed to accommodate him, and Bulma couldn't help but feel a swell of affection for Vegeta who remained perfectly still until she was entirely relaxed, seemingly content to just kiss her into submission. She hadn't taken him for the considerate type, and the wild look in his eyes and the pulsating energy that radiated from every inch of his body contrasted sharply with how _gentle_ he was being. She never would have thought he was capable of such behaviour. Then again, she never would have thought he'd actually be here, in her bed, _inside her._

All of her previous fears fluttered away, forgotten, only able to focus on the fact that _Vegeta_ was buried to the hilt inside of her, moaning ever-so-quietly into her mouth, mouthing something that suspiciously sounded like the garbled words 'fuck' and 'tight'. When she felt ready Bulma tentatively rocked her hips, testing the limits of her body. Vegeta tore his lips away from hers, hissing in what Bulma hoped was pleasure. He rolled his own hips tenderly, his dark eyes scrutinising her face to ensure he hadn't hurt her. When Bulma moaned, unable to stop herself, Vegeta smirked and dipped down to press his lips to the shell of her ear. “Do you want to test the limits of my self control?”

Rising to the challenge Bulma grinned, something he'd said earlier ringing in her ears. “Break me.”

The wild creature that had entered her bedroom seized Vegeta once more, and he pulled out only to immediately thrust back into her, unfettered by her earlier wavering confidence. It was almost as if Bulma was looking at a new man, one she'd never known. _This_ Vegeta was so unlike the stoic, rigid beast that she'd housed for the last twelve months. Starkly different from the man who would flush neon red at any lewd comment, erupting with furious embarrassment at the slightest sexual provocation. _This_ Vegeta wasn't limited by self-control. He was dominated only by instinct, lustful and needy; he wanted to rip apart worlds not because he had to test his powers, not because some inter-galactic warlord told him he had to, but because he needed to to placate the raging beast within. _This_ Vegeta was fucking her because millions of years of biology were telling him to, and he didn't feel the need to rationalise or argue it.

Even as liquid fire coursed through her veins, drip-drip-dripping down her spine, Bulma couldn't help but feel giddily triumphant. Something tiny and almost malicious whispered to her that this was the _only_ time Vegeta had ever fully cut loose in his life. She didn't know how or why, she simply knew it to be the truth. This was a part of him that only she had ever known, and, selfishly, she wanted to keep it that way.

“ _Harder._ ”

Vegeta picked up the rhythm, thrusting into her almost violently, the hand on her hip clutching her tight enough to bruise. The bed groaned in protest, threatening to come apart with Bulma under the Saiyan's might; every whimper, every garbled attempt at his name only seemed to spur him on, adding to the fire that raged within him. In the back of her mind Bulma was worried she might actually fall to pieces, but right here, right now she was merely worried that he might stop, having never felt so _alive._

Of their own accord her hands found their way into Vegeta's hair, fingers gripping thick tendrils at the roots, roaming soothingly over his scalp. She didn't miss the way he bucked into the sensation, a purr vibrating quietly in the back of his throat.

“ _Shit_ , goddamn it, woman,” His voice was low and quiet, but potent in it's desire. Her hands tightened their grip and his body spasmed, momentarily falling out of rhythm. Experimentally Bulma tugged harder, forcing his head back, delighting at the sight of his hot, flushed cheeks and sweaty brow, lips parted in unconcealed rapture. As punishment – or reward, Bulma couldn't tell – for her actions Vegeta thrust against her with particular force; his pelvis striking her clitoris, making her mewl and arch against him.

Focusing on this new weakness, he forced her legs wide apart, hooking her knees over his elbows to pound without mercy; fucking her so deeply and so thoroughly that Bulma was sure he'd always known her body – had always known exactly how and where to touch her to send her spiralling into release. He owned her so completely, knew her body so well, that it felt as though she had always been his.

“Oh fuck. Harder, please. Vegeta, oh fuu--,” Bulma sobbed, struggling to catch her breath, to formulate sentences that didn't consist almost entirely of his name, 'fuck', and 'please'. She could feel the pressure building, pooling in between her legs, aching for release. She wished, mournfully, that he'd removed her bra, that he hadn't been in such a rush to fuck her, aching to feel her breasts pressed up against his hard, sweaty chest, to feel every inch of his body with every inch of hers.

“What a _vulgar_ woman you are,” Vegeta panted, grinning salaciously. He slipped his right hand down between their bodies, letting her leg splay unaided, and thumbed her clit; a steady, circular motion that did nothing to slow the aggressive rhythm of his hips. It was all too much, the final straw that sent Bulma careering over the edge.

“ _Vegeta,”_ she wept his name as she came undone, her body trembling in agonised bliss as he continued to ravage her, chasing his own gratification, eking out her orgasm in the process.

Bulma was still numb, floating outside of herself and only vaguely aware of the way Vegeta's hard body suddenly tensed with a jerk of his hips, a breathy growl hot against her neck as teeth met flesh. By the time she was able to think coherently Vegeta had already stilled, gasping for air almost as desperately as she was. Bulma loosened her hands from his hair, wincing as he pulled out of her and rolled to the side.

Had sex ever been this way before? She had always been thoroughly satisfied with her physical relationship with Yamcha, _more_ than just satisfied. But sex with Vegeta forced her to rethink her concept of intimacy entirely, her entire body throbbing with a pleasure she'd never thought possible. The thought stirred a pang of guilt, knowing that if Yamcha ever found out about what just transpired he'd never forgive her, but she pushed the emotion away for later.

“That was incredible,” she said quietly, wiping damp hair from her sweaty brow. Vegeta only grunted in response, but it lacked the disinterested curtness that normally laced his voice. He sounded satisfied, calm. Daring to steal a look Bulma rolled onto her side, propping herself up with an elbow.

She'd seen him shirtless plenty of times, spectated his naked torso more than she'd seen him fully clothed, had seen him exhausted from gruelling workouts. But the image of him on her bed, chest heaving, face soft and completely lacking his usual scowl – taking years off of him and making him look so boyish and sweet that it caused Bulma's heart to clench – made her gasp. Vegeta glanced at her from the corner of his eye at the sound, but said nothing, though the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Woman, it pains me to think you ever thought otherwise,” Vegeta said, his eyes closing and the smile widening. Then, quick as a flash he was on top of her again and she was flat on her back, pinned to sweat drenched sheets by her wrists. Dark, hungry eyes opened wide and boring into her soul once more.

“I'm not done with you yet. That was merely the warm-up”

\--------

 

He hadn't bothered with showering, electing to instead rush straight from her quarters and into the Gravity Room in an attempt to push the memory of the previous night out of his mind as quickly and effectively as possible.

In retrospect, that hadn't been his smartest move, and he was beginning to regret these actions. Her scent clung to him uncomfortably, a heady mixture of her sweat and perfume and the bitter metallic odour of her laboratory that was undeniably _her_. It was maddening, and he cursed his heightened senses every time he caught a fresh whiff of her. His hair seemed to be the the most problematic, and every time it so much as moved he was hit by another nauseating bouquet of _Eau du Bulma._ She had buried her hands in his hair, tugging at his scalp and caressing his skull with those deft little fingers of hers.

He'd tried hard to avoid her touching him, to not relinquish any control to the little blue-haired vixen, but in the heat of the moment he'd allowed her one small luxury, and now he was paying dearly for it.

The drone fired at him, and he barely dodged it, skirting out of the way at the last second.

Vegeta had taken her three more times over the duration of the night, losing himself in her hot, wet cunt over and over again until she was liquid in his fingertips, and he could no longer remember the indignant cries of his two remaining soldiers at the loss of their planet.

He'd shredded her bra, biting and bruising her soft, pale breasts until they were littered with purpling spots; laving on pert nipples as she writhed in his grasp, moaning his name with the delicious curl of her tongue. Flipped her over, stomach pressed into the mattress as she howled his name like a prayer. He'd _never_ heard her make noises like that at the hands (or cock) of her former mate; had only ever heard the occasional mewl or whimper, and the fact that he could reduce her to a sobbing, screaming mess stroked his ego pleasingly, among other things. That being said, he was painfully aware that it made their activities far more _obvious_ to the other inhabitants of the compound, particularly the woman's parents. The desperate way she wailed his name made it impossible to pass anyone else off as her suitor.

Would they still house him, knowing that he – the monster that had once tried to defile their planet – had defiled their daughter?

A second drone swooped towards him, and he caught it with a well placed kick that sent it spiralling towards the floor. Another uncomfortable burst of her scent wafted his way with the movement, and it took all of Vegeta's self-control to restrain a moan as his cock twitched.

Fucking her had been unlike any other quick, passionless fuck he'd ever had. She was so alive, so eager; a quivering mess that demanded abuse with a shriek of his name. And _fuck,_ the way she said his name was tantalising. It was needy, brimming with want. So unlike the humiliating way Frieza would say it, as if he were dirt on the bottom of his boot, or the way her pathetic friends said it with venom and mistrust. _She_ made his name sound like the most wonderful thing on this miserable planet, and he'd been driven to hear her say it again and again and again.

Therein lay his current problem. He still wanted her.

If anything, he wanted her more now.

Vegeta had been hoping, apparently naively, that once he'd finally had her he'd be able to concentrate fully on his quest for ascension. That all distractions would be eliminated with the soothing of his biological needs. Except, unlike all his previous encounters the act did little to purge him of his desires.

He yearned to take her again, to feel her flutter and flail around him, to have her buck against him, her thighs locked about his hips. It had taken every ounce of strength to even leave her bed, her frail and naked form curled up in sweat, bathed in the soft light of the early morning. He'd wanted to wait for her to awaken and reclaim her with fresh vigour, had seriously contemplated abandoning the day's training in it's entirety to spend it with the woman.

He could hardly recognise himself.

With a groan Vegeta adjusted his pants, uncomfortably tight against the throb of his erection, and cranked up the gravity hoping, desperately, that it would at least somehow cool the desire prickling beneath his skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very, very out of practice when it comes to writing smut (I think my last attempt was probably during my second or third year as an undergraduate for one of my poetry classes), so I'm sorry if that's glaringly obvious. 
> 
> I’m so honoured to announce that my fic [City of Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282903/chapters/27919710) has been nominated for The Prince and The Heiress 2017 Annual Awards’ ‘Best of the Undiscovered’ category, so feel free to check that story out between Imbroglio updates.
> 
> I'm always happy to chat with fellow DBZ/Vegebul fans on my [Tumblr](http://myn-sii.tumblr.com/writing), and I also regularly update chapter progress/information on there.


	7. Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New sleeping arrangements yield some unexpected results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to preface this chapter with a quick apology for the wait. (I'll explain more later)
> 
> Thank you to all of those who have patiently stuck by me, and I hope this chapter won't disappoint you! It's another chapter where nothing happens while very important things happen simultaneously. And there's a little bit of smut, and who doesn't enjoy that?

* * *

“We should probably talk about this.”

“Dammit woman,” Vegeta hissed, his hands kneading desperately at Bulma's hips and buttocks, bucking up to meet her rhythm. “There's nothing to talk about.”

Bulma planted her hands on his chest, suppressing a moan as she wriggled and writhed, eyes flicking down to Vegeta's face. His own eyes were closed, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead and Bulma had the sudden urge to trail it with her tongue. His lips were parted, his cheeks were reddened, simply enjoying lying back and being pleasured by the human woman riding him. Bulma found the image endearing; lacking taciturnity, his features softened and the harsh whip of his tongue tucked quietly away. He looked so _innocent._ Which, given what they were currently doing, was an odd conclusion for Bulma to come to, but it just fit so well.

“Yes there is,” Bulma said quietly, shuddering when his hands squeezed sensitive flesh even tighter. Absently her fingers traced one of his many scars, a thick ropey welt that split the skin on the underside of his ribs. She rolled her hips, as if to punctuate her earlier statement, delighting when Vegeta's breath hitched and his legs trembled.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Vegeta's eyes opened as he spoke, ablaze with the mingling of frustration and lust. “Are you trying to ruin the moment? I thought we already established an understanding.”

It had been two weeks since their first liaison, and when she'd woken up in her bed _alone_ the following morning she'd assumed that it had simply been a one night thing; a way for Vegeta to burn through an excess of anger and energy that he had no other way to expel, and now he'd purged himself of such desires their relationship would fall back into its usual pattern. She'd trudged down the lab, he'd dedicated his day to his usual training, and they both only emerged for food and bathroom breaks. Bulma had felt a little bubble of disappointment in the pit of her stomach, but dutifully tried to crush it – telling herself that they'd never agreed to anything more than what she got, and she'd had the best sex of her entire life so she should be happy. And that, she'd thought, was that.

But at one.am he was at her door once more, his hair damp and only a towel wrapped around his freshly showered waist. He'd trapped her with his gaze, searching her face for the answer to a question he never vocalised, and when he seemed satisfied with his findings he'd tentatively trapped her chin between his forefinger and thumb to bring her face closer to his own. Wordlessly he touched his lips to hers, making no attempt to deepen th kiss into anything beyond the harmless brushing of skin on skin, pulling back after a few moments to regard her once more. Waiting for her next move.

Bulma had guided him inside, closing the door behind them with a soft thud, and reached for the towel. When she unhooked it and the material fell to pool at the Saiyan's feet, his mouth found hers once more, and his hands desperately clawed at her sleep shorts and shirt.

It had been the start of a new routine.

They'd both go about their usual days – him working himself to the brink of death in the GR, her slaving away over new bots and capsule technology in the lab. If they crossed paths, particularly in the company of others, they'd merely grunt at one another, business as usual. Then, every night without fail, he'd come to her room and bury himself in her, his demeanour changed. The first few days he'd left as soon as it was clear they were both spent and exhausted, but he'd started staying longer and longer until he simply gave in and curled around her, a hot, heavy arm occasionally splayed across her pale stomach as he slept.

His kissing skills weren't nearly as impressive as his sexual prowess, but Bulma had come to learn that very few species habitually involved themselves in such an act, Vegeta only learning the basics through his brief encounters with such species. Still, he was a quick learner and seemed to very much enjoy the act (leading Bulma to deduce that Saiyans were probably one such species who partook in mouth-to-mouth contact and he was simply too young when his planet was suddenly reduced to rubble to realise), pining her against whatever surface he could find when they were alone and greedily pressing his lips to hers.

He still hadn't permitted her to touch him, but not for lack of trying. Every time Bulma's hands dipped below the waistband of his pants, even when his cock twitched and jumped eagerly at the potential contact, a low warning growl would begin to vibrate from deep within Vegeta's chest, commanding her to immediately stop. She suspected that it was a control thing, and Vegeta simply wasn't willing to give her the upper hand. Literally.

Still, it made foreplay extremely one sided. Though he seemed to not need it at all, always hot and hard and eager for her, and she found it hard to voice her complaints when he had his rough, heavy hand buried between her thighs and his teeth latched against her throat.

Neither of them discussed what was happening. Until now.

His hands held her more firmly, thrusting up into her almost violently, picking up a furious and desperate pace as his breathing grew increasing more ragged.

It was all too much, too intense; she'd been balancing on the precipice for far too long and his aggressive, needy bucking only sent her tumbling over the edge and into fresh new waters. Bulma grizzled his name miserably as she came, her fingers curling on his chest, legs quaking about his waist. Vegeta followed only seconds later, overwrought with sensations, his lips clamping closed as he spilled himself inside of her. She allowed herself to collapse on top of him, hot, sweaty bodies coming together with audible _slap_ , and wasn't entirely surprised when one of his hands curled around her and pressed her closer, his mouth brushing against her temple.

Vegeta was, to Bulma's growing amusement, uncharacteristically serene post orgasm, which led to unconscious, fractured displays of affection. Part of her wanted to install a hidden camera in her room to capture such moments; for leverage and for the undeniable proof that _Vegeta_ was capable of more than anger and killing and sulking over Goku-related inadequacies. The guys would probably find such behaviour as hilarious as Bulma; Tien and Krillin in particular would get a kick out of seeing the alien warrior who had so ruthlessly taunted and abused them in battle all those months ago transform into a placid puppy due to Bulma's magic vagina.

But Vegeta would probably kill her before he'd ever allow such footage to ever see the light of day, and then she'd actually have to admit she was actively boning the guy responsible for the deaths of most of her friends.

“So,” Bulma drawled when she finally found her voice again. “About that talk.”

Vegeta's muscles twitched, his grip loosening as he nudged her off of him. “Damn it woman, can't you let me enjoy one moment of peace?”

“It's important.”

“ _No._ Killing the androids is important. Achieving the Legend is important. Surpassing Kakarot so that I may take up my birthright is important. Your inane babbling is _not_ important.”

“Hey, mister, it is not inane babbling!” Bulma shoved at one of Vegeta's arms, but the action was useless. Even if her limbs weren't jellied it was still like trying to prod a boulder. “We need to have a discussion about what's going on here.”

“Given your admirable efforts, I'd say you know exactly what's going on.”

“Admirable efforts, huh? You really are nicer when you've just had an orgasm. I should give you those more often.”

Vegeta smirked, his eyes darkening. “I wouldn't object if you chose to.”

“And _THIS_ is what I'm talking about,” Bulma smacked at his bicep again. “I thought it was a one-time deal. Then you started showing up outside my room every night and I'm not so sure.”

His smirk fell, brows knitting together. He looked like a sulking child, the same sour expression on his face that Gohan wore when he was forced into studying when he wanted to play or train. “You haven't been complaining, woman.”

“No, I haven't. Because it feels good,” Bulma said, propping herself up on her elbows. It was oddly natural to talk and argue with Vegeta like this, naked by his side, drenched in his sweat and her own. A tiny, but shrill, voice in the back of her head was screaming that it should feel awkward, should feel weird, but for the sake of her own sanity she silenced that voice with the wave of her hand. “But clearly there's something going on here that needs to be addressed.”

Vegeta's scowl deepened, clearly not sharing her sentiments of ease, looking as if he were seconds away from storming out of her bed and blasting a hole through the wall in order to make a swift exit. “Aren't you the one who said that this was just sex?

“Well yeah, but...”

“But nothing. I don't care about your damn human sentimentality. I enjoy our arrangement, it's very obvious that you enjoy our arrangement. I'm not suddenly going to do something as vulgar as proclaim my new-found affection for you. There's no need to worry about that.”

“Okay, good.” There it was again, that pang of disappointment. She knew it was just sex, of course she did. But Bulma was growing quite fond of the way he looked as he came, and the near silent rise and fall of his chest as he slept. His presence was soothing, her own personal bodyguard waiting to protect her from the androids in case they made an early appearance. It helped ease the anxiety about the uncertainty of her future, helped keep her grounded. She liked the way it made her feel useful, as if she were contributing to the prevention of the mechanical apocalypse in her own small way. Most of all she enjoyed nurturing the tiny slither of vulnerability he had entrusted into her care. It made her feel…special.

“Woman, you're doing it again,” Vegeta said, though his voice was much softer now, lacking it's frustrated edge.

“Huh? Doing what?”

“Traversing the galaxy with your eyes while your feet remain rooted in rock.”

It was such a beautiful analogy that Bulma almost couldn't believe that it came from _Vegeta_ , and had she not been there and saw his lips moved she'd have never have thought him capable of such things. It was a far cry from the pithy remarks he'd usually bark her way, and it sent a fascinated little thrill rocketing down her spine. She wanted to ask him about it, wanted to know if it was a well-used expression out in space, or simply something he made up himself. But she knew Vegeta well enough to know he'd clam up the instant she voiced her curiosities, so thought better of it.

“Sorry. I got caught up thinking about the androids for a second there,” it was only a half-lie.

Vegeta grunted, apparently satisfied with the answer. A few moments passed before he cleared his throat and spoke again. “You'd be a good fit out there.”

“What?”

“In space,” he clarified. “You're woefully weak, but you're far smarter than most, and resourceful. You're wasted on this planet. Had you possessed the strength you might have even made a good Saiyan. You certainly have the pride for it.”

Bulma perked up. Vegeta comparing her to his precious Saiyan race was a compliment she had not been expecting. Her ego swelled at the encouragement, and she couldn't help but preen a little. “Is that so? Would you like it if I was?”

“No,” he said flatly. The bubble burst, and Bulma found her shrinking down to usual size again.

“Oh.”

“Tch. Don't take it as an offence. If you were a Saiyan you'd either be dead by Frieza's hand, or faced with the hopeless realisation that your entire species depends on you and _Kakarot_ to continue. No more full blooded Saiyans left. The last of our kind.”

“If I were a Saiyan and still alive, because I'm obviously smart enough to escape Frieza, so there's no need to worry about _that_ , at least you wouldn't be so alone.”

“I suppose that's true.”

“You can pretend, if you want.”

“What?”

“That I'm a Saiyan. If it helps, you can pretend I am. I don't mind.”

“As if I would ever stoop so low,” Vegeta's cheeks blazed, but his tone was oddly smooth. Almost... _happy_. Well, as happy as he could ever be.His eyes, as usual, betrayed almost nothing, but he didn't look as though he was only seconds away from snapping her neck, so that was definitely a plus. “Besides, you're far too pale to be a Saiyan. Without the tail you'd need black hair and eyes to be truly convincing.”

“That kid from the future had none of those things and he was a Super Saiyan.”

“That _boy_ is no Saiyan. It's impossible.”

“Are you _sure_?” Bulma pressed, not caring in the slightest that he'd begun to bristle with agitation once more.His anger flared and died far too easily for her to care about igniting it all the time. “Do you have any brothers you don't know about? Illegitimate children of your friends?” She paused, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “Do _you_ have any children? You know, accidentally getting an alien pregnant after visiting her world...”

“No,” Vegeta said sharply. “I would never be so reckless as to get a female pregnant. I took the necessary precautions to ensure that any encounters I may have were with biologically incompatible species, and those that ran the risk usually did not live long enough to see pregnancy come to fruition. Frieza was not fond of the idea of the Royal bloodline continuing. Besides, any spawn of mine would have _black_ hair, like a true Saiyan. That boy is either a clever imitation or of a weakened, diluted bloodline.”

How many women had been killed because they'd had sex with the Prince of all Two-And-A-Half Saiyans? How many women had lost their lives for the sake of a moment of brief release with the destroyer of worlds? A cold, creeping spectre told Bulma that she was likely one of the only ones - if not _the only one -_ to physically engage with Vegeta and live to tell the tale, and had Goku and The Boy From The Future not vanquished Frieza she'd have already joined the mass grave under Vegeta's bedpost. He was so calm, so blasé about the fact that every lover he'd ever taken had ended up dead, but then again that was so common place in his life. His father, his race, his long time companions. Even his rivals. With the exception of their group every single creature that crossed Vegeta's path met a grizzly fate one way or another, a God of Death leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Logically Bulma knew she should feel appalled, scared, even. But she felt nothing of the sort. In fact she just felt sad, her heart burdened with the knowledge that Vegeta had known nothing but loss and loneliness.

No wonder he only knew how to fight and kill.

He'd never had the opportunity to know anything else.

An uneasy silence fell between them and Bulma decided not to press the matter further. Still, Vegeta remained by her side even if he was pouting like a toddler recovering from a temper tantrum, and he hadn't made any attempts to abandon her so that was always a plus. Finally, after a few moments she felt him relax, his tense muscles giving and becoming fractionally more pliable, and his voice was quiet in her ear.

“Is that what you do? Pretend that I am human?”

“No, if I wanted _human_ I'd just go out and get one,” Bulma admitted shyly. “I like that you're not. It makes this more exciting.”

“Is that so?” He smirked, his lopsided grin its usual hard, cruel line, but his fingers moved softly against her abdomen, achingly so, and she sighed at the contact.

It _was_ true, alarmingly so. The fact that he could kill her without even trying served as a sort of aphrodisiac, particularly when he was using her roughly. She knew that he'd felled entire planets with the tips of his fingers, and the fact that those very same hands were capable of such restraint that he could crack them against her flesh with _just_ enough force to remain on the right side of pleasure and pain did something to her that she couldn't quite describe.

“Uhuh. It's very _dangerous_ , and I like danger.”

Bulma felt him hot and hard against her thigh again, and absently wondered if Chi Chi had the same problem with Goku. It seemed, much like their appetite for food, the warriors were hard to satiate, and Vegeta's unyielding stamina and bottomless hunger were already testing the boundaries of her bodies limitations.

She was pinned suddenly, hands locked around her wrists and forcing them above her head, coal black eyes dancing menacingly. “I am the most dangerous being of them all.”

Still thick with the evidence of their previous session, Vegeta pushed inside of her with a groan, leaving Bulma to wonder what God she had pleased (or monumentally pissed off) to deserve the insatiable beast between her thighs.

\--------

He was trapped, encircled by thousands of people he had slaughtered, all acting as a barricade between himself and his planet. He could see his father beyond the throng of people, the distance between himself and the king increasing with every ghost that came to haunt him. Some of the faces he vaguely recognised; soldiers in Frieza's armies, mercenaries he'd exchanged bounty details with at bars, entire races that he'd met and abolished in minutes. They all circled him like a wild fire, the flames licking closer and closer to his skin, forcing him back and away from his beloved home world.

And then he spotted Frieza in his final form, looming above King Vegeta and cackling manically, a finger raised and extended. Vegeta could see the energy sparking at the warlord's fingertip, could smell the pre-emptive boiling of blood and melting of sinowy tissues. His father seemed not to notice or care that his son was there, too busy begging for his life, for the lives of his people, at the three-toed feet of the lizard.

He _had_ to get closer. Had to stop Frieza. Had to avert all of the pain and the chaos before it could begin again and his life played on loop.

“FATHER!”

Vegeta launched a Galick Gun into the crowd, and those in his way flickered out of existence for a moment before returning, closer and more tightly packed than before. He may as well have been a young cub again, for all the good it was doing him, and he began his assault again, firing random ki blasts into the thickening throng of people in a vain effort to close the widening gap between himself, his king, and his tormentor.

Vegeta felt several pairs of hands grab at him, holding him firmly in place, sapping him of his ki in the process. He whipped his head around, only to be confronted by Nappa, Zarbon and Cui, all smirking manically.

“You brought this on yourself, Vegeta,” Zarbon said, cruelly forcing Vegeta to look at his father, the hand on his chin scaly and rough.

King Vegeta was toppled over by a swift lashing of a tail against his chest, the unmistakable sound of splintering bones echoing around the tightly packed room.

“You couldn't save him then, and you won't save him now,” Nappa added, his grip on Vegeta's shoulder tightening to the point he could feel the bones popping and crushing.

Frieza smiled wickedly, still charging a blast, crouching down to eye level with the Saiyan king. He said something Vegeta couldn't catch, but the hideous upturn of his lips told Vegeta all he needed to know. The warlord struck King Vegeta again, this time a hard back handed blow that snapped the mighty warrior's arm clean in two. Like a lost and frightened little boy, Vegeta wailed, still fighting his captors. Only then did his father look up at him.

“Vegeta!”

Vegeta's bones were being pulled from their sockets, and he was vaguely aware of the hands that were ripping his tail from his spine. He wanted to pass out, wanted to die, but he wanted to save his father more. He writhed against his attackers, every muscle screaming in protest. “Let go of me you fucking bastards!”

To his surprise they obliged, dropping him with a malicious chuckle before fading out of view. They were replaced by Kakarot and The Boy, both hidden beneath a golden shroud that stained their hair blonde and their eyes a pupil-less blue. For a second Vegeta forgot about Frieza and his father, forgot about the suffocatingly claustrophobic crowd that was only building and gathering with every passing second. He saw only the two villains who had robbed him of his birthright, his anger flaring.

He was about to launch another attack, could feel the burning purple orb of energy gathering at his palms when a new voice, soft and frightened and oh-so-familiar cried out behind him.

Bulma.

“Vegeta, help me!” He whipped around to see the woman being backed into a corner by two faceless mechanical figures, her eyes wide and swollen with tears. Her gaze was fixed solely on him, seeking him out amongst the crowd, begging for him. Vegeta's chest ached, his lungs screaming for oxygen as his lungs vacated on their own accord. He wanted to save her, _needed_ to save her.

The blast he had charged for Kakarot and The Boy was redirected, blistering towards her but dying just in time. He attempted to wade through the mess of bodies, through the stench of blood and piss and shit to protect her from the androids that circled her like wolves and their prey.

“Vegeta!”

The prince spun on his heal, the pained shriek of his father reminding him that she was not the only one who needed his help. Desperately he perched on his tip-toes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the king. The distance between them had grown tremendously; and he was but a speck on the horizon now. The girl wailed his name again, drawing his attention her way once more. Much like his father, Bulma had also been dragged out of reach, the current of victims that Vegeta swam amongst pulling him further and further away from the shore. He only had enough energy to attempt to save one, and even then Vegeta couldn't guarantee their survival. Frieza's power still eclipsed his own, and the androids had already so easily disposed of him in another life. But he had to try.

_But who to choose?_

His father or the Earth woman. It should have been an easy decision, he shouldn't even have to think twice, but he found himself agonising between the two, terror and frustration mounting and clouding his judgement.

“If you were a Super Saiyan you could save them both,” Kakarot said mockingly, a malicious smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “If you were a Super Saiyan you could have saved _everyone_ on Planet Vegeta.”

“Vegeta, please!” Bulma was sobbing, hugging herself and cowering away from the two beasts advancing on her as best as she could. He felt the tug then, the urge to protect her, the urge to shelter this fragile, broken thing from creatures no better and no worse than he was. She had no means of protecting herself, no power of her own.

She needed him.

“Vegeta, my son!” The moment he took a step towards the Earth woman he heard his father cry out in pain, and Vegeta faltered. Could he really stand by and watch his king die again for the sake of a female?

“Vegeta, _please_. I _want_ you. I _need_ you.”

She had cared for him when others turned their backs, touched him kindly for the first time in thirty long, painful years, She had torn apart her home and her life just to accommodate him. Baring her soul and her body to him so that he could take it as he pleased. He was a monster, undeniably so, but her unwavering loyalty had stirred something within him that he simply could not ignore.

“Vegeta, you are my _son._ ”

He could rectify the wrongs done to him, done to his people, turn back the clock and allow the Saiyan race to take their rightful place as the rulers of the galaxy. The most powerful being in existence. That was a far greater purpose, a far more noble cause, than saving a blue haired whore who just happened to be a willing and pleasurable fuck.

“Vegeta, I know you want me. I could make you happy.”

Is that what he felt with her, _in_ her? Happy? That nagging, warm sensation that swept over him when he was buried to the hilt and drenched in her scent. He did want her, undeniably so – her body called to him near constantly – but in what capacity? Could she really make him happy? Did he _want_ her to make him happy?

“Vegeta!”

Time was running out, the blast hovering beyond Frieza's fingertip was nearly fully charged, and the androids were within touching distance.

“Vegeta!”

One of them was going to die. Perhaps both if he didn't act soon.

“Vegeta.”

“Vegeta.”

“ _Vegeta.”_

_Vegeta. Vegeta. Vegeta. Vegeta. Vege-_

“Vegeta?” Bulma was perched on top of him, her hands clutching his shoulders and shaking. She was pale, her blue eyes wide with fear, and her frame was quivering. She was undeniably terrified, but she was safe; warm and solid against his flesh. Instinct demanded her wrap his arms around her waist and pull her flush against him, inhaling her comforting scent. He had chosen her, though he couldn't remember doing so, and though the agony of losing his father was one again burning and raw, he felt oddly content that she had somehow survived and was safe in his arms. Or, at least, as safe as she could be in the arms of a seasoned killer.

He had suffered through enough losses in his life to lose her too. He was not so foolish as to believe their bond was cemented in anything more than lust and loneliness, but she was right – as she was annoyingly often – and he _did_ consider her a friend of sorts. A companion that he trusted, and whose life would be a great loss to him should she suddenly crumble and die.

It took an embarrassingly long moment for him to realise that she had never been in any real danger, and he'd simply been embroiled in a nightmare. The shame crept in and he released her, his face hot and throat aching. He pushed at her, though far more gently than usual, still frightened that she might shatter and fade away if he touched her too roughly. She complied easily enough, pulling away from him and allowing him his space, though still straddling his stomach. Her eyes were wet, lashes spiky.

“You scared me,” she said quietly, raising a trembling hand to wipe a stray tear away from her cheek. Vegeta sucked in a breath, his emotions running wild and conflicting. He knew that it was pity in her pretty eyes, knew she felt terrible sorry for him, and that he'd exposed her to this broken, vulnerable side of him that he'd never wanted to share with another living being. He wanted to scream at her to fuck off, to launch her away and snarl and spit at her until she bowed and retreated and never came near him again. But something else was brewing within him, unfurling in his chest. Her concern was a balm that helped eased his anxieties, and he wanted to revel in it. She _cared_ about him.

“It's okay, I have nightmares too.” Bulma offered him a tense smile, clearly fully expecting Vegeta to snarl at her, tell her she didn't know _anything,_ and cast her off with a slew of insults to cover up his insecurities. To her obvious surprise, none of that came. Instead, Vegeta looked at her with a vulnerability in his black eyes that was physically _painful_ to observe, his brows raised instead of knit together.

“...You do?” He asked cautiously. Her opinion shouldn't matter to him, by all standards it didn't, but he still wanted it nonetheless.

“Of course,” Bulma said, running her fingers up and down his chest. He relaxed somewhat at the sensation, and she planted a kiss against his temple. “I may not have been enslaved by an evil space lizard, but I've seen some shit. Of course it all manifests, it's normal.”

One of Vegeta's hands snaked up to catch hers, intertwining their fingers. He used their conjoined hands to pull little body flush against his, savouring the way she looked above him in the dark before rolling them over and pining her beneath his body. “What are your nightmares about?”

“Stuff that happened when we were kids...the Red Ribbon Army, giant monkeys – sorry, _apes_ – disgusting monsters we've fought... Namek, the deaths of my friends and boyfriend...” She trailed off, glancing at Vegeta. His jaw had tightened, but otherwise he didn't react. He wasn't one for regrets or apologies, and the logical part of his brain reminded him that he was a _warrior,_ and he likely would never feel remorse for his previous actions. Still, a part of him hoped that his tensed muscles and the hardened glint in his eyes told Bulma that he felt at least somewhat guilty, if only for being the source of her nightmares if nothing else. She leant up to press her face into his neck, nuzzling her cheeks against his hard body. “I sometimes have nightmares about that green guy on Namek. You know, the one with the hair?”

“...Zarbon? Tch, why?”

“Did you _see_ him? He was so...disgusting after he transformed, and he used to be so handsome before. What a shame.” The mood had lightened considerably, largely in part to his body reacting to the proximity of hers and her open confession.

“You thought Zarbon was handsome?” Vegeta asked, voice tight. The little bitch smirked against his skin. He'd known it then and he knew it now. She'd wanted that awful green frog back then, and had been repulsed by Vegeta's very presence back on Namek.

“Uhuh, don't you remember? I thought he was coming to rescue me from _you,”_ she was mocking him, the tone of her voice making that much painfully obvious. Vegeta should have killed her for such insolence, but he let it slide. Just this once. Instead he rocked against her, already half hard again, relishing in the tormented moan he pulled from her lips.

“ _Tch._ Idiot. I can't imagine anyone thinking Zarbon was desirable.”

“You're kidding, right? Luscious hair, chiselled jaw, pouty lips... and that body. So muscular and _tall_.” Bulma had added the last comment on purpose just to irk Vegeta, he could tell by the wicked glint in her eye when she pulled back to stare up at him.

Vegeta abruptly stilled his hips, something unpleasant biting at his insides. “You like tall?”

“I like imposing. Powerful. _Dominating,”_ Bulma said, punctuating the final word with the arch of her back. Her arms rose up to lock around the back of his neck, and all lingering images of Zarbon and his father and the endless sea of those he'd killed were forgotten. There was no Kakarot, no rush to become a Super Saiyan. Only her and the weight of her flesh against his. The tip of his cock nudged against her cunt and she mewled, but he made no effort to enter her. She'd already been his too many times that night, and he was vaguely aware that her body lacked the ability to keep up with his. If he were to exhaust her now, to break that barrier and _hurt_ her she may well deny him in the future. He was content enough to merely grind against her, teasing himself as much as he was teasing her, so long as it staved away the horrors of his unconscious mind.

Which is why, when she lowered herself onto him, without pageantry or warning, he hissed in surprise; eyes widening beyond his control, lips falling apart.

How many hundreds, if not _thousands,_ of women had Nappa and Raditz taken? Between purges they'd practically lived at whore houses, bedding six or seven women – if not more – a _day._ Comparatively speaking Vegeta was inarguably under-qualified, though it had never bothered him before he'd met her, and yet this little creature opened herself up to him so willingly, so compliantly, singing his name as she shuddered and panted around him, weeping in satisfaction as his control fractured inside of her. A bead of sweat pooled in the dip of flesh above her clavicles, and she winced at the intrusion, undoubtedly aching from their previous coupling, but she soldiered on; grinding her hips against his until her whimpers faded from her lips and were replaced by stifled moans.

“And yet your former mate was none of those,” Vegeta said darkly, some ugly and possessive thing latching around his heart, demanding he prove his dominance. He could not best Kakarot, not yet, not until he'd ascended, but he had certainly bested at least one of the Earthlings in a way that would cause lasting damage. He had taken their mate as his own, no matter how temporarily he used her, and there was _nothing_ the pitiful creature could do about that. A single thrust, sharper and harder than the others, was all Vegeta needed to get the implication across.

Yamcha was none of those things that Bulma found desirable in a mate. Vegeta was _all_ of them.

The woman gasped at the intrusion, her hair clinging wetly to her face. Her rebuttal was oddly tame, too caught up in the act to offer him a real fight. Vegeta would make sure to amend that later. “Hey, be nicer to him. He's still important to me. I care a lot about him and he doesn't deserve all the shit you give him.”

“You once asked me to kill him.”

“Yeah, but you didn't do it.”

“Only because I knew it would hurt you.”

“Well shucks, you _do_ care about me,” she laughed but it was swallowed by a moan, her head lolling back and eyes fluttering closed.

“No,” Vegeta replied hotly, somewhat frustrated that she had him in her bed and in her cunt and still insisted on defending that low class warrior she'd once associated with. Somewhat losing himself the intensity of _her._ “I care about my training. Had I killed the weakling you would have ceased the Gravity Room repairs.”

“If you say so, buddy,” she said on an inhale, and the arms around his neck were beginning to vibrate. She was careening towards an orgasm, flesh too over -sensitive from being overworked, exhausted from battle. Her cheeks were dark, the heat of them radiating and scalding his own skin. She had once asked him to break her, and Vegeta was not one to disappoint. It was not enough just to make her cum, not enough to know that he had claimed her beneath the noses of her self-righteous companions and she would be forced to wear his scent like an exotic perfume. He had to destroy her, each and every time. The need to wreck this beautiful little waif intensified with every fucking, and he understood in that sharp second why Raditz and Nappa had been so eager to throw their credits away for the needs of their cocks.

Vegeta pressed his lips to hers, demanding she open her mouth and submit to him. She fought him for only a moment before acquiescing, her tongue dancing alongside his, her pleas of 'more', 'fuck', and his favourite – his name – lost in the cavern of their mouths.

When she came, exhausted and with a scream he swallowed greedily Vegeta simply let go, allowing himself to float unhindered by the weight he placed up his own shoulders. She was still riding out her own high, lost to him, to herself, when he followed her, and neither of them noticed the way he groaned her name against her lips as he climaxed.

Vegeta couldn't pin point exactly when they disentangled, couldn't say when they'd removed sweaty limbs from one another, or when she'd retreated to her bathroom to clear up. By the time he heard her return, the soft footfalls muffled by plush carpet, he was already dancing on the edge of sleep once more, and when she slid into bed next to him it was easy to just close his eyes and dream.

And he slept.

This time undisturbed for the first night in years. No dreams of Kakarot or Frieza or androids or the loss of his world tainting his slumber.  

He simply slept, his body and mind temporarily at peace, soundly by her side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, by the end of that chapter 'Vegeta' no longer looked like a real word, and it all became a bit of a blur. It is unbeta'd and written at 3am, so if there are any mistakes that need amending _please_ don't be shy in pointing them out to me! 
> 
> Again, I cannot apologise more for the delay. Life in general got in the way massively this past month (including a family member being rushed to A&E, a car crash that totalled my car, some broken fingers on my dominant hand, and general chaos that creeps up during the run up to the holiday seasons), and I did try and concentrate more on my Vegebul AU ['City of Stars'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282903/chapters/27919710) as it placed second in **The Prince and The Heiress' 2017 Annual Awards** _'Best of the Undiscovered'_ category. Feel free to check it out between chapters of _Imbroglio_ (and, like Vegeta, I'm quite fond of having my ego stroked so it would definitely please me ;) ). 
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for your continued support, it honestly means the world to me and I cannot thank you all enough. I promise I'll _try_ to get the next few chapters out soon (if life permits it), and there are certain future chapters that are almost complete (as I wrote them before the rest of the story) so the uploading schedule should be more frequent then. 
> 
> As of the next update (chapter 8) chapters will be accessible 24 hours before general release. You can read more about it [here](http://myn-sii.tumblr.com/writing) (as well as information about my uploading schedule, chapter progress, and if you want to just have a chat about all things DBZ) I also have a Twitter (username: mynsii) where I post mostly DBZ stuff and I'm always open for discussions about episodes/characters with a fellow fan!


	8. Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry about the long wait between chapters! If you're a fan of CoS you'll know I've had an awful few weeks. A family member of mine is terminally ill, my car was totalled in a bad car accident, and I have been in and out of hospital myself. I'm hoping that things will slow down soon, but in the meantime thank you all for your patience and continued support!

Vegeta quite liked the low hum of ten times Earth's gravity, and though he'd sooner receive another ki blast to the heart from Frieza than admit it, there were times – like now – when he'd crank down the gravity and just _sit._

It reminded him of home, though his memories of Planet Vegeta were sketchy at best, dulled and disintegrated by a childhood of lonely pining for a father and race who would never return. If he let the gravity run at his home planet's pressure and closed his eyes long enough, he could almost see red skies blistering on the horizon, and feel the dry, prickling heat of the palace gardens.

He had only been a cub, a spoilt, selfish, _stupid_ little cub who had taken those things for granted. Had taken the flicker of his tail, the weight of his father's hard, heavy hands on his shoulders, the assurance that'd he'd wed the finest female on Planet Vegeta and sire a litter of whelps that would wreak havoc on the galaxy, and the chorus of battle cries of his people as they sang of their victories around festival pyres for granted. Had taken for granted his role as prince of an entire species, his role of big brother to an even smaller cub he would likely never see again, his role of son to the bravest warrior he'd ever met, and a mother he could now barely remember. He hadn't understood how much he'd _needed_ it all until he found himself enslaved by the lizard who took it all away from him, and was left with the scraps of his once nobel race.

A third class child who cared more about finding his lost brother than spending time with the only other living Saiyan cub who desperately needed the comfort, and an old man who was losing his touch.

Earth was... okay. It was too blue and wet to ever resemble Planet Vegeta, more like Namek than any inhabitable planet he'd previously come across, but the people resembled Saiyans so closely it was _almost_ a comfort. There were other bipedal species who resembled Saiyans to a degree, but they were always too large and bulky (like Recomme), too brightly coloured (like Jeice), or too feral and beyond communication. He could almost trick himself, in an attempt to stave off the madness creeping at the corners of his mind, that _this_ was his home. That _they_ were his people. He hated them all, of course, weak and complacent and oblivious to the universe surrounding them, but he could hold his head high while living in the home of the wealthiest, more important creatures that this world had to offer, and act like the royal he was born to be. Bulma was perhaps the only exception; the only human he actually cared about.

Regardless of how things were to turn out, he'd intended to keep her alive. He'd decided that long before she piqued his sexual interest, longer still before he'd had her in her bed. She had her uses, and he hadn't been lying when he told her that she'd be a perfect fit for life beyond the limitations of her miserable little rock. She replicated Saiyan armour perfectly, more than perfectly, in fact, improving upon the designs and bettering them well beyond the limits of his imagination. And of all the couple dozen women he'd been with she was the only one who made intimacy feel more than just a purging of a useless biological impulse. In the oddest sense he trusted her, more than he had trusted any other companion, and he gave his body to her as willingly as she gave him hers. But more than that, he permitted her to peak into his soul, and in return she soothed him with the cool brush of her skin. He would protect her because she was the only thing he had left to protect, the closest thing to his kind that didn't include Kakarot and the half-breed, and because he actually liked her. Not in that sappy, sentimental way that humans insisted upon, but in a way he hadn't' experienced since before his kind became a critically endangered species.

But now even that was being threatened, and he was once again a child staring off into the empty blackness of space where his planet had once resided, helpless and alone.

A year and a half.

One year and six months on from The Boy's warning, and he was still yet to ascend.

He had expected results by now. Expected more than just a paltry increase in base-strength.

Nothing had really changed other than his tolerance for spine-crushing gravity and his new bed partner. The latter of which was an experiment that was rapidly failing him. Vegeta had come to believe that if he could replicate Kakarot's body chemistry, then perhaps it would make the transformation into The Legend easier. Kakarot was _clearly_ sexually active, the half-breed was living proof, and perhaps it was something to do with the raised testosterone levels, or the expelling of _other_ frustrations that made a low-born warrior able to achieve what the prince of their species could not.

That and Bulma was a pretty good lay.

Very good, in fact. She actually made sex pleasurable. Made him want more. He'd had more sex with her in the weeks they'd been engaging in... whatever it was they were engaging in, that he'd had in the thirty-plus years previous. Which was part of the problem.

She was _distracting._

She was distracting him now.

He could feel the weakling and his over-sized rat sidling up to the woman, and it only amplified his agitation. He'd been meditating, if you could even call it that, ruminating on the androids and Kakarot and the fact that some _brat_ had been the one to finally tear down his former master, when he'd felt the unpleasant prickle of Yamcha's ki closing in. It had been settled next to Bulma's practically non-existent, miniscule ki for quite some time, and it was only adding to Vegeta's mounting frustrations. It wasn't the first time he'd shown up, it's like he'd _known_ what was happening under the woman's roof and in her bed, and he made it his job to make an appearance every once in a while just to piss Vegeta off. But there was something off in his ki that set Vegeta on edge, a wavering _blue_ that unnerved the Saiyan as much as it seemed to unnerve the human it inhabited.

He should have resumed training by now, or at the very least slipped back into his meditative state to attempt tapping into his power and unleashing the golden beast he _knew_ resided within him, but all Vegeta could think about was the bleeding of the two human power levels outside of the Gravity Room, and the whimpering sounds of pleasure that had once filtered through the house long before Vegeta had ever touched the woman.

Every train of thought, every demand he placed upon his limbs, ended up focusing on her eventually; his body aching for a workout that only the tangle of their naked forms could offer, his mind seeking validation from the smartest creature he knew. It was fucking intoxicating and alarming, an invasion of senses much like the invasion of the mechanical creatures that loomed above them, and he simply couldn't find a way to shut it off.

\--------

One of the attendants brought a fresh pot of tea to the table, filling Puar, Yamcha, and Bulma's cups before placing it in the centre and retrieving the now empty and cold pot to carry back to the kitchen. The three of them all offered the young woman a small smile or nod of thanks, Puar immediately poofing into a slightly bigger version of their natural form in order to hold to cup with greater ease, while Yamcha just stared at the liquid as if it held the answer to all of his problems. Bulma was picking at one of the sandwiches, her stomach unsettled and churning painfully, her gaze shifting across the compound groups to occasionally alight on the humming Gravity Room.

Yamcha's arrival had been sudden, but not completely unexpected. Now that they had mended the fabric of their friendship, something that they hadn't had singularly in well over a decade, he'd return to Capsule Corp with increasing frequency, and for the most part Bulma was okay with it. It got incredibly lonely, and she could no longer just leave on a whim and spend months on Roshi's Island with Krillin and Launch as she had done in her youth, nor could she just pack up her things and go on another wild, reckless adventure. She had responsibilities now, with the company, with Vegeta, and she couldn't simply abandon them because she longed for the comparatively easy and free life that she'd lived in the early days.

So, Bulma was somewhat grateful that Yamcha would show up from time to time, often with Puar hovering about his shoulder, occasionally Krillin would be in tow. Much like she had done with Vegeta, Bulma began supplying Yamcha with the means to train in the gardens at her house, often using the bots that were no longer strong enough to handle the Saiyan prince without being completely obliterated, or prototypes that fit too well with human biology but not well enough with alien DNA. She tried not to feel like she was doing something wrong by hosting the only two people she had ever slept with in such close proximity, and tried to dutifully ignore the nagging sense of guilt that came with thinking about the one while in the presence of another. In the strangest of ways it _almost_ felt as though she were committing a slight against Vegeta by associating so closely with her ex-boyfriend, and she _knew_ that if Yamcha were ever to find out about this new...arrangement, he'd rightfully be heartbroken.

Yamcha had been training in the gardens for most of the morning, using three bots from various generations as his sparring partners. Bulma had watched from one of tables, working on schematics for a new Gravity Room – one which would be much bigger, and sit inside the main building, rather than simply residing inside one of the capsule ships. It would be a mammoth undertaking to get it built, but well worth the efforts. It would be far more structurally sound, would allow for far more features, and would reduce Vegeta's chances of being seen by the paparazzi (and the paparazzi's chances of being killed) dramatically. Should Vegeta intend on sticking around, of course.

Bulma engaged in conversation with Puar as much as she could as she worked, listening to the outlandish, ridiculous tales of Oolong and Roshi's latest perversions, informative rundown of Krillin and Yamcha's latest training regimes – including the several scattered appearances made by Tien and Chiaotzu. The little cat seemed happy to prattle on, and normally Bulma would be more than happy to listen, but something about the day felt off. As if the world had spun out of alignment and they were all hurtling towards oblivion, and she simply couldn't shake it.

Which is why, when Yamcha joined them for lunch, looking equally as downcast as she felt, she _knew_ something was wrong.

Yamcha fisted his hands in his gi, his face hardened tightly in fear. It didn't suit him; it looked wrong to see her carefree, easy-going ex-lover looking so serious. Even when the world was all but ending he'd have a witty quip to add here or there, or the self-assured confidence that he or Krillin or Goku (always Goku) would get the job done and fix everything. Even when Goku had died, even when their world as they knew it came shattering around them and life came to a shrieking stop, Yamcha had stepped forward with Tien to face certain death, cocky with the belief that they _could_ do this, despite losing their best chance in the process. But now he looked tired, dark circles shadowing his eyes and highlighting the faint lines around his them that, if he were a normal man, not saddled with the stresses of super-human strength and the obligation to fight as a protector of the earth, he should have been too young to have. Bulma desperately wanted to reach out and smooth a palm over his face, to comfort him as she would have done just a few months prior, desperately wanted his acceptance of failure to be little more than a charade.

“What if things don't work out?” he asked quietly. “I mean, I know the kid said Goku never got to fight, but will it even make much of a difference? Those androids still took down Vegeta and Piccolo like it was nothing. That kid said _he_ couldn't beat them, but he chopped up Frieza _and_ his dad. We're talking about robots a million times stronger than the strongest thing we have ever faced. Super Saiyan or not, what if it's not enough?”

“But things are different now. We _do_ have Goku. Vegeta is really close to changing now, I'm sure of it. I know I can't sense power levels, but I have eyes; I mean have you seen him lately? He's at least twice the size as he was when he first started living here. If that kid comes back to help us fight then that's _three_ Super Saiyans on our side versus just him in his world. You guys are all getting stronger day by day. We have an army now, we're prepared.”

“You're kidding, right? Sure, we're all training, but most of us are only human. We have our limits, and I'd say we're all pretty close to hittin' 'em. I can't talk for Piccolo or the Saiyans, but they can't all just be bottomless pits of power, right? As much as I hate the guy Vegeta was their goddamn king, and the toughest fighter than Tien and I faced. If that guy is one of the first to fall in the future then the rest of us have no hope.”

She had never known him to be so nihilistic, so insistently somber, and it awoke a sense of panic within Bulma that she had been desperately trying to quell ever since the Saiyan boy from the future had breathed the prophecy to life. “So what are you saying?”

“Best case scenario, only a couple of us die,” Yamcha grimaced. “Probably those of us who don't possess alien DNA. Worst case.... we _all_ do.”

“Yamcha...” Bulma's eyes began to sting, her voice hoarse as it struggled to pass through her dry and swollen throat. “So we should just lay down and die?”

“No. Of course not. We're going to fight. I think we just need to have some sort of plan in place. A safety net. You still have those ships you built to go to Namek, right? Fill a couple of those with as many people as you can, and ride it out in space while we... try and deal with things down here.”

“Fuck!” Bulma hissed, her little fist colliding with the coffee table. Puar squeaked in alarm, their tail fur fluffing up defensively. “If you guys had just followed my plan you'd all be safe. But _oh no_ , you assholes had to turn it into a dick measuring contest. A fucking game of 'who's strongest' that risks all of our lives.”

“Bulma, I -”

A palm raised and outstretched silenced Yamcha. “ _No_ , it's not fair. No one ever listens to me. I'm just brought along when it's convenient and then dumped back in the toy box the rest of the time when you're all done playing with me. You're all so selfish. We could be _safe_ right now. But Goku and Vegeta had to get all riled up about the next big battle and you-” Bulma jabbed a finger in Yamcha's face. “and Tien and Krillin all followed suit and started making plans, and none of you even cared that there are _billions_ of people out there like me and Puar and Oolong and my parents and pretty much everyone else who isn't super-human strong and capable of _flying,_ who can't defend themselves. Launch had the right idea by getting as far away from you all as possible. You're all so selfish and stupid and _dangerous_.”

Bulma ended her tirade with a wail, several months of pent-up anxiety rising to the surface. She was a soda can shaken too hard, her insides frothing and bubbling, increasing the pressure, looking for release. The cap had been popped, and when the tears began to fall – hot and fast and ugly – she had no way of forcing them down even if she wanted to. Yamcha hesitated for a moment, shooting Puar a confused look, before coming to her side and wrapping his arms around her, letting Bulma sob into his chest.

“I'd do anything to be normal,” Bulma wept miserably.

“Me too. Maybe some day, huh?”

Bulma laughed bitterly. It was the same sentiment that Yamcha had expressed when they'd broken up, the excuse he'd clung to to explain away the blonde woman who had been the final straw that had broken the camel's back, and for the first time Bulma could truly understand and empathise with his reasoning. As if they could ever achieve anything remotely resembling normalcy now. Decades of throwing themselves at danger to protect the Earth, summoning mystical beasts and conversing (and _training_ ) with actual Gods had made that impossible. But it was a nice dream.

A dream of white picket fences and laughing children who weren't forced to fight their way through infancy. Of family festivities and get-togethers not initiated through global disasters. Of sitting in a group and not having to worry about the fact that half the members had, at one point, tried to murder the other half and, in some cases, had been successful in that mission.

She leant her head on Yamcha's shoulder, sniffing loudly. “Yeah, maybe some day.”

“What happened to us, B?” Yamcha asked quietly, his hand circling her back.

“About fourteen years of bickering and a big breasted blonde?”

“Pfft. I didn't mean _that_ ,” he replied hotly. “I meant... with all _this_. Sure, we had some wacky adventures as kids, but when did it get so... intense? One minute we're just a group of teenagers trying to make a wish and fighting the occasional bad guy, the next minute one of our best friends has had his neck snapped and we're fighting for our lives. Just like that we stopped being kids, and it's only got worse. How did it all get so... messy?”

Bulma blinked up at him, somewhat awkwardly from her position against his chest, worrying her bottom lip miserably. “I don't know.”

It felt nice to just be held by Yamcha now without being consumed by anger or anxiety regarding his predilections for pretty girls, or without the knowledge that the only reason she was being held was because sex was on the cards. She nuzzled her head further into the embraced, letting out a soft, somewhat contented sigh that her ex-boyfriend returned eagerly with one of their own. From the corner of her eye, she _swore_ she could see _something,_ shrouded by darkness, shift forward and stiffen. She raised her head to try and take a look, but it was gone before she could even lift her chin, retreating into the shrubbery surrounding her garden like a wounded animal.

Perhaps it was a trick of her imagination, too long spent agonising over murderous beasts from the future, and she her fears had began to manifest.

“Are you okay?” Yamcha asked, his voice muffled by her hair.

“I... I just thought I saw something.”

“Oh?” Yamcha broke their embrace, returning to his seat next to Puar and sinking into it. “Probably just one of your dad's pets.”

“Yeah,” Bulma agreed. She went to pick up her sandwich to start picking once again, when her blood ran cold with dawning realisation. She hadn't thought much of the shifting silence until that moment, not until she'd resumed her earlier staring contest with the contents of the lawn.

The Gravity Room had stopped humming.

\--------

Vegeta paced the far end of the compound gardens, his phantom tail lashing furiously behind him as he fought to contain the growl vibrating in the cavern of his chest. He didn't like how her former mate's sudden proximity felt, as though Frieza's tail was once again wrapped tightly around his torso and constricting the life out of him. He had only emerged to fuel himself, to get some fucking food before resuming – or, more accurately _starting –_ his training for the day. Seeing that ridiculous oaf with his arms around Bulma, her face pressed into his chest, was sickening, and it had taken every ounce of self control Vegeta possessed not to turn around and kill them both, and in an uncharacteristic effort to save their lives, he'd turned on his heel before he was able to summon the fury into his hands.

Jealousy. That's what the woman had once called it.

Vegeta scoffed to himself, firing a ki blast into the distance before warping into its path and deflecting his own attack. He was not _jealous_ , especially not of _Yamcha_ , and not concerning a human female he had no real connections to. Jealousy was not an emotion he was well acquainted with. Anger, frustration, hate. They were old friends of his. But jealousy? No, that was beneath him.

His issue lay with her potential to pick a low class mortal with a power level lower than his pinky finger over _him_. She had an annoying habit of defending the earthling unconditionally, reprimanding Vegeta as though he were a naughty child if he spoke out of turn. It was infuriating, especially given that embarrassment of a so-called warrior had the gall to betray her trust and sever their bond the way he had. She had no reason to defend Yamcha, and a Saiyan woman would have gutted her mate for such an offence. Vegeta often found himself wanting to spill blood on her behalf, not that he actually cared about Bulma's feelings. It was simply a matter of pride.

The woman had once referred to the scarred earthling as her prince, and the notion that _he_ could be anything close to Vegeta in title or appeal left a sour taste in the Saiyan's mouth. How anyone could even consider Yamcha as an alternative to Vegeta was beyond his comprehension, and only served to infuriate him further. _He_ was supposed to be the one fucking the woman. He knew that human senses were pitiful, but could that idiot not detect Vegeta's mark all over her? She drowned in it, and he had taken care to scent her and _claim_ her every time he had her naked and writhing. If not the weakling, then surely his little shape-shifting friend?

It was just sex. That's all it was. But if felt disgustingly wrong to share her with another when her body was so clearly his now. He _should_ be enough for her, _more_ that enough; he was the crown Prince of Saiyans, born with an extraordinarily high power level, destined to push beyond the limits of an ordinary Saiyan. The fact that he had lowered himself to residing on this miserable hovel of a planet should have had her on her knees in gratitude, yet as readily as she had started bedding him, it seemed she was abandoning him in favour of a fighter who couldn't even hold his own against a single saibamen. Was she merely toying with him? Mocking Vegeta with the human male behind his back, weaponising her body and maintaing her affair with the other man? He hadn't detected the lingering stench of Yamcha on her in months, not in _that_ regard at least, so it seemed unlikely. And yet there was a certain intimacy in their exchange that suggested they were still lovers, and it bothered Vegeta.

More than he knew it should.

They were friends, and he had trusted her. Really, truly trusted her. Some pathetic, squirming maggot burrowing into his brain _still_ trusted her. Knew she would never hurt him physically, even if she somehow acquired the power to do so, but some nagging, foreign sensation, nestled between the anger and disgust, told him that she _was_ capable of hurting him in other ways.

\--------

Yamcha had resumed his training shortly after lunch, working through katas and taking advantage of the Capsule Corp. technology currently at his disposal. As a teenager she had watched Yamcha work out almost religiously, dedicating hours of her day to obsessing over the rolling of his muscles and the flurry of his fists. She had, at that time, thought him to be the most _incredible_ creature she'd ever seen, but now she could only critique as she glanced in his direction.

By human standards he was still incredibly skilled, though he still favoured his right leg over his left, old injuries having never fully healed, and she knew with certainty that his raw power eclipsed that of any normal humans. But he lacked the skill of his Saiyan companions; contrasting with both Goku's wild, ragged energy, and the controlled, liquid grace of Vegeta. He made mistakes, flittered between over-confident and painfully uncertain, and it showed in the stiffness of his limbs and the way he'd second guess his movements.

Feeling hot and guilty in her judgement, Bulma tore her gaze away, redirecting it new GR plans. Puar was curled up on a cushion, dozing sweetly, leaving her to ruminate quietly with her thoughts. Had Vegeta witnessed the exchange between Bulma and Yamcha? Why did the thought of him stumbling upon such a scene fill her with dread? She was worried that he may get the wrong impression, but, then again, what impression did she want him to have? Vegeta had endeared himself to her all the more with his open honesty following his nightmare, and with each coupling she found herself slipping towards feelings that extended far beyond the restraints of friendship and a non-committal sexual agreement. The notion that Vegeta may have seen her cozying up to her ex-lover felt a lot like _cheating,_ which was ridiculous as it was false, but no matter how hard she tried she just couldn't shake the unease sickness.

“Hey, what the hell, man?!”

Yamcha's started cry roused Bulma from her thoughts, awaking Puar with a shrill squeak, and she glanced over to find one of the training bots mangled on the grass, sparking and broken beyond compare. Yamcha had his hands raised defensively, edging backwards while never breaking contact with the dark, brooding figure before him.

Vegeta.

“What are _you_ doing with _my_ things?” The Saiyan asked, pointedly looking at the shattered drone. His tone was acidic, dripping with unbridled hatred, and Bulma knew with certainty that she had been caught out. That the fleeting, black figure in her periphery had been Vegeta. Her heart throbbed at the realisation.

“Look buddy,” Yamcha caught himself when Vegeta snarled at the over-familiarity, swallowing back his fear. He ceased in his retreat, straightening his back to tower over the shorter man, holding his own with misguided bravery that was as admirable as it was stupid. “I know you're royalty and used to getting your own way, but these are Bulma's creations, not yours. _She_ let me use them. Just like _she_ lets _you_ use them.”

A blast of energy surged forth from Vegeta's palm, narrowly missing Yamcha's face and obliterating a second drone. The yelp that tore from Bulma's body without her permission gained her a cursory glance from the Saiyan, but his expression was utterly thunderous and completely terrifying.

“You have no business being here.”

“I'm here for Bulma.”

“I was under the impression that she was no longer your concern.”

“Well maybe you thought wrong.”

Vegeta's lip curled viscously, his sneer deadly. “Did you know she once asked me to kill you? Had I agreed to her demand you'd be little more than a corpse rotting a wasteland. _Again_.”

Bulma stared in open-mouthed horror, the blood draining from her body. Yamcha turned to face her, looking hurt and broken, searching her face for assurance, looking distraught when he found none. “You're a liar,” he said finally, though it lacked certainty.

“Yamcha...” Bulma began, but every excuse and explanation died on her tongue. Even if she were to tell the truth, to admit that it had been a rash, spur-of-the-moment request with no depth to it, born simply in the aftermath of their final parting, she knew that Yamcha would never understand. Had she asked anyone else; Tien, Piccolo, Krillin, then _maybe_ he would laugh it off. But she had asked Vegeta, a man Yamcha loathed with every fibre of his being, a man who Yamcha blamed in part for their breakup and the distance between them in the lead up to it. Tears clouded her vision and she _hated_ Vegeta for using that weakness against her, hated herself for not anticipating that he would.

“Oh, am I? Why not ask her yourself.” Vegeta's eyes locked with Bulma's, cold and furious. “It seems the woman has a few secrets she's yet to share with you.:

“Pssh, yeah right. As if I'd ever believe _you_. You have no authority here _your majesty_.”

“I suggest you fuck off before I snap your pitiful neck for interrupting my training.”

“Hey man, it's not my fault you over compensate because you'll never be stronger than Go–ooff”

The fist that collided with Yamcha's gut retracted with ease, Vegeta having barely broken a sweat from the near incomprehensible warp the the human warrior's body, nor the blow he delivered. Bulma could only watch as Yamcha slowly sunk to his knees, his face suddenly incredibly pale. Everything had happened so fast; a blur of poor decisions and bad omens, yet another 'fuck you' from a universe intent on screwing them all over.

“You think you're so tough,” Yamcha wheezed, clutching his stomach as he staggered to his feet again. “But you're _nothing._ I hope the androids kill you. You can join your dead-monkey father in Hell.”

He'd gone too far.

Any modicum of composure Vegeta had been clinging to before this moment was tossed to the wind, his face contorting into something bestial, something hideously unnatural that, for a flickering moment, Bulma wondered whether it would be possible for him to transform into the Great Ape without assistance from the moon or his long lost tail. In a movement to fast for her brain to comprehend Yamcha was in the air; Vegeta's raised leg the only indication as to how he'd got there. The Saiyan disappeared in a blue-black blur, all at once above Yamcha with his hands interlocked to deliver a crushing blow to Yamcha's spine that sent him hurtling to the ground once more. There was a sickening crack as his body met the ground, the unmistakable sound of splintering ribs and fracturing bones.

“Lord Yamcha!” Puar's cry was swallowed by an awful, drawn out scream, and it wasn't until she clamped her hands over her mouth that Bulma realised _she_ was the one making the noise.

Vegeta landed on ground lightly, with the silent grace of a big cat, his fist lost in Yamcha's gi as he lifted the other warrior to his feet by his chest. Yamcha was horrifically limp, his head lolling backwards and arms hanging at his side. Vegeta raised his free hand, a familiar golden orb crackling at his palm, and held it in front of Yamcha's throat, his eyes still glazed with a feral disconnect that she had last seen in Raditz when he had stolen Gohan from beneath their noses on the promise to kill every last one of them. Vegeta looked wild, as far from human as he could ever be, intent on following through on his initial promise to obliterate them all.

And Yamcha had no way of defending himself.

“Vegeta, stop! You're going to kill him,” Bulma shrieked, galvanised by fear and vaulting from her seat. “He's had enough. He's learnt his lesson... please Vegeta, _please_ stop.”

He hesitated for just a second, enough for Bulma to run to his side and tug at his raised arm. Vegeta's eyes trailed down to her thin, pale fingers against the dark, corded muscle of his arm, and she felt his muscles relax under her touch. The golden ball of energy at his palm flickered and died, and Yamcha groaned quietly, consciousness slowly returning to him.

“Vegeta, let him go.”

The Saiyan's chest heaved with effort, but the controlled mask he habitually wore had returned. With a grunt Yamcha fell to the ground, and Bulma retracted her hand from Vegeta's arm to dart to his side, gently nursing her former lover's head in her lap, stroking his face gently in an attempt to rouse him. He looked _awful,_ his torso mangled and misshapen, one arm dangly loose from its socket. Vegeta had barely touched him, and yet he looked as though he were lucky to still be breathing.

“Lord Yamcha, oh no!” Puar said with a horrified squeak, its little paws fluttering helplessly over the warriors broken body. Yamcha gurgled in response, but when Bulma pulled his eyelid open to check for a response, his eyes remained glazed and unresponsive.

“He deserved it.” Bulma's head whipped around to face Vegeta, who was stood with his arms crossed, looking far more collected than he had been moments before. “I am _not_ a monkey. My _father_ is not a monkey.”

Had the situation been any different, Bulma would have felt a shred of understanding and perhaps even fully sided with Vegeta. But it was hard to offer him any sympathy when he stood there so resolutely, without remorse, having betrayed her trust so completely, and very nearly murdered someone she loved so dearly. _Again_.

He was a monster. The one who had curdled her stomach when she'd first kissed him; sending her hurtling into moral crisis when she thought of all the lives he had so easily taken, the billions of innocents that had died by his hands that weren't enough of a deterrent to stop her yearning for the feel of his flesh against her own. She had been sickened by herself back then, deeply ashamed and embarrassed. She had powered through because she had been convinced that Vegeta was a changed man, that his time on Earth had rehabilitated him. Sleeping with him had been easier, and growing attracted to more than just his body had been a natural progression. But seeing him pummel Yamcha so mercilessly, so terrifyingly easily, awoke old anxieties, and the knot was back in Bulma's stomach tightened.

Vegeta was the beast straight from the mouth of Hell that the others had always told her he was. She and Goku had been wrong to try and defend him.

He was beyond redemption.

Bulma shielded Yamcha's body with her own, knowing it was a useless effort should Vegeta choose to murder either one of them. “I don't care, I want you to leave.”

Vegeta took a step towards them, towards the house, towards _her_. She hated him, hated herself for ever trusting him. For ever wanting him and thinking that maybe, just maybe, there could be something between them.

“Get the fuck away from us!”

Vegeta's expression shifted, and he looked hurt; a confused and lost boy, failing to understand why he was suddenly being rejected. The sight of him looking so openly vulnerable, so disarmingly wounded knocked Bulma breathless, her heart aching. She wanted to retract the words immediately, the anger dissipating, but she couldn't find the words, couldn't swallow her pride, so she simply stared back and him and hoped he'd understand.

But Vegeta was gone, a ball of energy soaring into the air and beyond Bulma's line of sight.

Yamcha groaned again in her arms, and Bulma let her tears fall unbidden.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :( 
> 
> \---
> 
> If you want something happier to read feel free to check out my ongoing Vegebul AU 'City of Stars' (aka my love child), as well as my upcoming festive two-shot 'The Art of Giving'.
> 
> All work is available 24-48 hours early on **bae** treon, and I also have a _Ko_ Fi for anyone who may be interested.
> 
> Self promotion over, I'd like to thank you all for making my 2017 special, and I hope you have fantastic Christmas and the happiest of New Years.


	9. Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for this being so late. I did intend on posting this in January, but time got away from me (as it is want to do), and I feel awful. With the insanity that was the last quarter of 2017, I wanted to give myself a break over the holiday period to enjoy Christmas and my birthday. To be honest, I really needed the break and I feel a lot more refreshed now I've had a little while to just sit back and take care of myself.
> 
> Part of the issue, I think, is that at the moment I am just more invested in City of Stars, which is 'mine' and a story of my own creation, whereas Imbroglio is just my speculative take on established, but missing, canon. 
> 
> Either way, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and my apologies for keeping you waiting!

Yamcha grizzled as the nurse hoisted him up, a thin sheen on sweat glistening on his forehead from the effort of moving. With a lack of cultivated senzu beans to help him on his way, he was entirely reliant on healing the good old fashioned way (or, at least until Yajirobe was able to bring one, but Kami knew how long that would take), and he'd been feeling sorry for himself in the Capsule Corp. medical bay ever since.

Bulma winced from her hiding place in the doorway as the covers fell away from him, exposing a torso that was more purple with bruises than anything else. She was no stranger to seeing Yamcha injured, or even dead - it had came as part of the territory of dating a fighter – but she couldn't remember him looking this pathetic or sorry for himself since the 22nd World Martial Arts Tournament, and memories of his leg splintering under Tien's foot came rushing back as though it had happened only yesterday, and not a decade earlier. She had been so sure at the time that the break would prematurely end Yamcha's career, and it was only out of sheer luck and determination that Yamcha had been able to recover.

Walking away from _Vegeta_ with only a (rather large) handful of broken ribs and a badly broken arm, however, had been nothing short of a miracle. Bulma had fully expected him to die from his injuries before she could even get him properly seen to, panicking about internal bleeding and punctured organs. The fact that he had managed to walk away relatively unscathed, at least in the larger scheme of things and after admittedly spending two days unconscious, was testament to both Yamcha's will to survive and Vegeta's determination to change, and in the strangest way Bulma was proud of both men.

Still, pride didn't knit together broken bones, nor was it a suitable substitute to morphine in terms of pain relief. It also didn't bring way-ward alien strays back from whatever hole they had fled to.

When the nurse seemed satisfied that everything was okay, and the collection of fist-shaped lesions scattered across his middle and back had been inspected and cleaned, she let Yamcha drop back down onto the bed and scurried away, passing Bulma in the hallway with a brief update on his condition. Forcing a smile, Bulma walked into the little room, waving sheepishly at Yamcha as she did so.

“There's my favourite girl,” Yamcha said through gritted teeth, his voice tight with the effort required to speak.

Bulma's smile wavered slightly, her stomach flip-flopping. She pushed aside the bubble of guilt that threatened to engulf her and forced her smile a little wider. “How ya holding up?”

Yamcha tried to shrug, but it was clunky with his arm braced and plastered to the shoulder, and his body a swollen, beaten pulp. “I've been better, but I've also been worse.”

“Korin said he'd send Yajirobe down with a senzu bean as soon as he could, and Krillin said he'd swing by and help you out if you needed it. Puar's sleeping in the main building. I think they're having a harder time with your injuries than you are.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Puar,” Yamcha said with a snort. “Thanks, B.”

“Don't mention it.”

A silence settled between the two of them, one that Bulma had been desperately avoiding at every opportunity. Yamcha staying at Capsule Corp., no matter how necessary and temporary, felt wrong, like a backslide into old habits when they both desperately needed a fresh start. Being left alone with Yamcha for too long like this made her think about things she'd much rather leave in the past, as though she were staring at the moult of her former self and being urged to clamber back inside skin that no longer fit.

Her mother had already settled into her old routine of fussing about Yamcha, complimenting him and waiting on him hand and foot, remembering his favourite foods and drinks as though he hadn't been gone for close to half a year now. Bulma had even caught herself stumbling through old exchanges despite her best efforts, because it felt easier and kinder than embracing the person she was now and thinking about _him_.

Yamcha, however, was unbothered by such thoughts and worries.

“So, still no sign of Vegeta?” he asked, his lip upturning at the Saiyan's name.

Bulma's smile wavered, her insides contorting. “No. It's been over a week now. I'm tempted to call Chi Chi and ask her if Goku could go look for him.”

“Why bother? Maybe we're lucky and he's got the hint so he's left for good.”

An aggressive spark ignited within Bulma, and the urge to rush to Vegeta's defence was overwhelming. She reined it in as best she could, though she couldn't help but sneer. “Are you stupid? We _need_ him. We're going to die without him.”

“Like you said, we have Goku and the kid from the future. Vegeta will probably show up just to fight anyway, but hopefully after that he'll go off back home and we'll never have to see him again.”

“Yamcha, this _is_ his home.”

“You've always been too nice for your own good,” he replied, and Bulma didn't miss the way his eyes rolled. “No, this is your home. He just freeloads here.”

“You mean like you did?” She bit back.

“Ouch. No need to get so personal,” Yamcha clutched his good arm to his heart, feigning hurt. “I'm just sayin', you don't want someone like him around. Just look at what he did to me. He's a savage.”

“You realise that this is all your fault, right? You called him a monkey. You insulted his dead father. What the hell did you expect him to do? You know what he's capable of, and you still pushed his buttons anyway.”

“He gets under my skin, Bulma. He's a monster, and he struts around the place like he owns it. He's so dangerous, and he looks at you like you're a little mouse and he's a cat who can't wait to take you down. Like you're part of his property too. What he said about you... when he told me you asked him to kill me... I just saw red. I lashed out. But I wasn't the only guilty party.”

Bulma felt herself choke with his comment about the way Vegeta looked at her. She had never noticed, perhaps because she was always busy of too busy fantasising herself, Vegeta looking at her in any way to suggest that something more than barely friendly co-habitation went on under the Capsule Corp. roof, and to hear Yamcha talk about the almost possessive way that the Saiyan regarded her sent a thrill rushing down her spine and pooling between her legs. The idea that he might want her in a way that was more than just a shameful secret he had to keep buried fanned her lust, and she had to shift and cross her legs to offset the growing discomfort.

“I miss you,” Yamcha said, oblivious as always to the inner workings of her mind. Bulma felt almost instantly guilty, and reached out to hold his hand.

“I'm right here.”

He pulled a face. “You know what I mean.”

“Yamcha...”

“No, it's okay. I know this is my fault,” he sighed. “And I know you're seeing someone. Your mom said you were dating again.”

Bulma paled. She had certainly tried to be discrete about her affair, and she hadn't wanted anyone to know she was banging arguably the most prolific killer to have ever lived on Earth, but Vegeta had a way of pulling things out of her (often in the form of her senses and his name), so it stood to reason that they may have been caught once or twice by the other inhabitants of the building. Bulma couldn't decide what was worse: her mother over-hearing her have sex, or her mother over-hearing her have sex with _Vegeta._ “She did?”

“She didn't say who, just that you were getting to know 'another young gentleman', but... it's not serious, right? When I asked her she just said she wasn't too sure, but that you hadn't formally introduced him to your parents, and to ask you.”

So, either her mother was lying, or she genuinely didn't know the specifics. Either scenario worked out well for Bulma in this particular case, so she breathed a small sigh of relief. “I don't know, I guess not.”

“Good,” Yamcha said, grinning. He caught himself when he saw her frown. “I mean good for me. 'Cause I was really, really hoping that maybe one day, in the future when you're ready and you want to, you and I can give things another shot.”

“ _Yamcha_...”

“No wait, hear me out,” he was practically pleading with her, and it made her gut twist. He was so fragile, figuratively and literally, and she had to give him this. To cut him off now, to deny him the chance to speak, would be nothing short of cruel. Yet, Bulma had an idea where this conversation was going, and to allow him to continue, to grant him a glimmer of hope, felt crueller still. “I've changed, and I'm working hard to be the kind of man who could make you happy. I know we had our ups and downs, but for the most part we were good together. We _understand_ each other. I mean, who else has seen all the stuff we've seen and gets it? It's nice to feel normal sometimes but it's so lonely. We can be ourselves. Find some stability in the chaos.”

Stability, that was a joke.

Stability in their world lasted all of a handful of months, a couple of years at most. Just enough time to grab something to eat with new friends after a competition before you find the limp body of one of your long time companions, neck snapped, and the demons wreak havoc across the planet. Enough time to get married and have a child before a long lost alien sibling turns up and helps put a gaping hole in your chest. Enough time to wish everyone back and enjoy a few months of normalcy before an evil, semi-mechanical dictator and his father turn up, only to be slain by a kid promising that there is far worse to come in the future.

Stable didn't exist for people like them. It was a right stripped from them the moment they'd stepped up as saviours of the planet. From the moment she had first packed her bags and drove off into the sunset in search of the Dragon Balls.

Still, it was a nice thought, and if they wanted even a glimmer of consistency and permanence in their lives then it would have to be with each other, with someone within their circle.

It had worked semi-successfully for Goku and Chi Chi (time spent dead or off-planet being obvious flaws), and had failed with questionable results with Tien and Launch. Bulma and Yamcha were the longest running examples with highly questionable success, and moving on by fraternising with another member of their group (albeit one on the outer fringes of their social circle) was only further proof that they could only find contentment with someone who was equally as burdened with their unofficial roles as Earth's Protectors.

“You don't have to decide anything right now,” Yamcha said gently, squeezing her fingers between his own. “And I'm going to be completely okay with things if you say no. I love you, Bulma. As a girlfriend _and_ as a friend, and as long as I have you in my life in some way I'm going to be happy. I just want you to think things over, because these last few months have made me realise I'm not ready to completely let you go. And almost being killed by our newest Saiyan kinda upped the importance of making sure you know exactly how I feel.”

“I wouldn't have let Vegeta kill you,” Bulma managed to get out. She couldn't even begin to process his proposition, couldn't allow the topic to be entertained in any form for any longer. It was cowardly, and she felt deeply ashamed of herself for opting to run instead of addressing the problem head on, but she was at her capacity for dealing with anything that didn't involve androids and trying not to die.

Yamcha's responding smile was gentle and compassionate, rich with understanding that she simply didn't deserve. Despite his transgressions, Yamcha truly was good to her. Often when she didn't deserve it, and it _hurt_. “I know. You didn't. I think you're the only reason I'm still here.”

Bulma blanched, feeling overwhelmed and embarrassed by the entire scenario. She needed to get out, to rid herself of the weight that had suddenly been pressed upon her. “Just get some rest, okay? I'll be in to check on you again in the morning. Just give me a call if you need anything.” She planted a kiss on his forehead, trying to ignore the acidic burn of remorse that leeched outwards at the gesture, screaming at her that she was leading Yamcha on, that she kept setting him up for an even larger fall. One which was destined to break a great deal more than just his bones.

\--------

Bulma sensed Vegeta's presence long before she saw him.

Sat sheltered on one of the compound's many balconies, swirling the same mouthful of red around her glass as she watched the sky, as miserable as her mood, fade from grey to blue to black, she had been contemplating her life (and all the outrageous events over the last twenty years that had brought her to this point) when she felt her skin prickle and she just _knew_ it was because Vegeta had finally come home.

To deny that she missed him would be pointless. After all, he was her friend, often her only one – or, at least, her only friend she saw for more than a few hours every few months – and she had grown accustomed to his presence and their established routine. She missed the sex less, mostly because she was still angry with him for maiming Yamcha (even if her anger was equally distributed between him and her human ex-lover), but also because she didn't see sex as the defining factor in their whatever-they-labelled-it relationship. They filled a void within one another that extended beyond the conjoining of genitals and exchange of bodily fluids; shared and understanding and a near perfectly level playing field when it came down to intelligence. Their mutual tempers blossomed and combusted, and they were equally matched in all aspects other than physical strength.

Despite the core differences in their species, Bulma was confident that they were more similar to each other than any of their own kind could possibly be to them. Goku and Gohan may as well have been a separate breed entirely, more human than they could ever be Saiyan, and no human ever came close to understanding Bulma's own way of thinking and sympathising with the complexities of her mind.

She and Vegeta were simply two cogs that didn't fit in the machinery they had been assigned to, yet somehow found a way to produce results when thrust together. The occupied a muddied, vacant space between the customs, traditions and expectations of both planets, experience rendering them outcasts from what they new, vagabonds with no real way to connect with their biological peers, and so they found a quiet solace in each other.

So of course it made sense, at least in her mind, that she was able to tell the moment he'd touched down in the vicinity.

She searched the darkness for some time, straining her eyes and willing them to adjust to the inky night, cursing her weak, human senses. Then she spotted him in the distance; a lonely figure stood in the middle of the grounds alone in the rain, staring upwards at the sky. It was drizzling – that fine mist that often feels worse than rain pelting against your skin at full force simply because it's inescapable and clingy – and without the shelter that the buildings provided Vegeta was a slave to the elements.

She popped a capsule and climbed onto the hover bike that erupted from it's stomach with the spill of smoke, letting it roar to life with the twist of her wrist. No doubt that alien DNA enabled Vegeta to hear it, and he almost certainly already sensed her presence, but he made to effort to move, even when she kicked the bike over the lip of the balcony and towards him.

She leapt off of the bike a good twenty feet away from him, letting it idle in a low purr for a while before re-capsulating it, wringing her hands together as she ruminated over her next move.

He remained still, practically statuesque, and to her horror Bulma realised as she approached him that Vegeta was injured, self-inflicted, given that no-one other than Goku possessed the strength to damage him; great gaping wounds weeping through the slashes in his battle suit. He wasn't even wearing his armour, though the fragments of it that were melted to the blue spandex suggested he hadn't removed it by choice.

He had a bottle of whiskey by his side, already half empty, the same one he'd been drinking the night they'd first kissed. It looked so out of character, so un-Vegeta, to see him sulking into a bottle and drowning his sorrows. It forced a lump to Bulma's throat; now that her angry had dissipated she no longer wished for his absence, but instead craved his proximity and the borderline pathetic figure he cut felt like a festering wound in her chest that refused to heal.

“It's a good thing I can afford to replace those. They're expensive, ya know,” she said, settling by his side and taking the bottle from his hands, desperately trying to keep her voice steady despite the fact that she was bristling with anxiety. She simultaneously wanted to chew him out for abandoning her, and fuss over his injuries.

He didn't find her admittedly weak attempt at humour funny. “Go away.”

“No.”

“I don't want you here, woman.”

“If that's the case maybe you should probably hang out somewhere other than my house.”

“Tch.” Vegeta glanced at her, finally acknowledging her properly, and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “With your pathetic human body you'll undoubtedly make yourself ill if you remain out here with me. ”

“I don't care,” Bulma said, crossing her arms over her chest and sticking her tongue out at him. He was right though, she ran the risk of making herself ill unless she could convince him to come inside with her. The mist had already dampened her hair and clothes, forcing them to cling unpleasantly to her skin, and the moisture had seeped into her bones and started to chill. Still, she wasn't going to leave without Vegeta, couldn't risk him jetting off again, so she remained stubborn and held her ground.

To her surprise, one of Vegeta's hands touched her neck lightly, almost scorchingly hot against her skin. “You're freezing,” Bulma could _hear_ the eye roll, yet his voice lacked it's usual abrasiveness. “Here.”

He shuffled closer and powered up, Bulma felt the crackle of electricity that engulfed his body radiate over hers. Hot, but not painful, a rush of static that swaddled her and momentarily snatched the air from her lungs. She felt a rise of panic at the newness of it all, but she heard him very quietly utter the word ' _breathe_ ', and her hysteria began to dissipate.

Bulma had no sense of power levels or ki, but the enormity of his strength, a slither of which was currently draped over her and taking the chill from her bones, could not be ignored, and a tiny thrill of fear rocketed through her. She had always known he was herculean force, capable of crumbling entire planets, of slaughtering billions without so much as breaking a sweat. She had even seen him rip apart opponents as easily as rice paper, a maniacal grin on his face as the blood of his enemies showered over him. But she had never felt it first hand, had never truly realised how capable he was of destroying everything she had ever known as easily as drawing a breath.

The fear flickered out after a second, swiftly replaced by awe.

The effort he must put in to handle her struck her with an intensity that would have knocked her off of her feet, had she not already been sat down. He was always so light with her, so careful to ensure he never crushed her or bruised her, and she couldn't begin to fathom the amount of self-control he must have possessed in order to touch her without snapping her. Even when he was being rough with her it was never hard enough to actually hurt her.

“Thanks.”

Vegeta grunted. “Don't thank me. If you were to die because of your own stupidity I would have no one to fix the Gravity Room for me.”

He had returned to staring at the night sky, gaze flittering back and forth between the stars and the empty spaces that surrounded them. He probably knew most of them by name, had probably passed them in his travels, lazed amongst them and had them soothe him to sleep. Perhaps he was even responsible for the blackness that stretched out between them, the shadows of planets that once were, but now were little more than brittle remnants of something great. Maybe Planet Vegeta had occupied such a space at one point.

“You could have killed Yamcha, you know,” Bulma said slowly, eyeing Vegeta for his reaction.

His jaw tightened, and he shifted his weight slightly in his discomfort. “I wanted to.”

“He shouldn't have said those things about you and your dad.”

“...”

“But,” Bulma stressed the word, before she continued, “you provoked him. You shouldn't have spoke to him the way you did. It was unfair on him, and it was unfair on me. I trusted you, Vegeta. You betrayed that trust.”

He expelled air from his nostrils, “It wasn't my intention to hurt _you_.”

“So why do it?”

Vegeta refused to answer her, turning his face away and huffing to himself in apparent embarrassment. She wanted to protest the matter, to push him further and force him to open up to her and just be honest with her. But the cold and the rain were beginning to take their toll on her, even with Vegeta's ki keeping the worst of it off of her; her joints aching, the tip of her nose going numb. She shivered and his sulking abruptly ended, turning his entire body so that he was now positioned directly in front of her, a customary frown pulling down at his features.

“You're cold,” Vegeta said simply.

“You're hurt,” Bulma replied. “Come back inside with me. I can have a look at your injuries, and we wont have to worry about me getting sick. Sounds like a win-win scenario to me.”

“I am a Saiyan. I don't need you to fuss over me over a couple of scratches,” he grouched.

“Yeah, well I'm a human and you're right, I _will_ get ill if I stay out here. But I'm not going anywhere unless you promise to come with me and let me clean you up. And Shenron doesn't bring back those who have died through natural causes such as illnesses, so I guess if I croak it because I get hypothermia then you'll just have to make sure you never break the Gravity Room ever again, because there will be no one left to fix it. You said so yourself.”

Vegeta glared at her, seething that she had the audacity to use his own words against him.

There was so much more that Bulma wanted to say to him; she wanted him to know how much she missed him, how sorry she was for telling him to leave in the first place. She wanted to tell him about Yamcha's offer, and beg him to force it to the back of her mind. She didn't say any of those things, knowing full well that both his ego and her own would bruise at such sentimental confessions.

“Please, Vegeta,” she begged when he still didn't answer, still glaring at her. “Come home with me.”

\--------

They stood somewhat awkwardly in her en-suit, electing to do this in the privacy of her quarters, rather than in one of the relatively public communal bathrooms. Despite initially complying with her demands, now that she had him where she wanted him, Vegeta seemed reluctant to actually allow her to tend to his injuries.

He had, with mounting reluctance and growing impatience, granted her permission to bathe him, and flown them both home rather than allow her to rely on her bike. The sudden rush of warm, dry air had been a welcome relief, and she had ignored the muddied tracks they left in her plush carpet when she finally saw him under a light that was more properly fitting for her eyesight.

He was a mess, bloody, bruised, and somewhat thinner than she remembered, leading her to believe that he'd eaten very little or not at all in the week he had been gone. Not to mention he was completely filthy; soot, congealed blood, mud, all caked onto his skin and seeping into his wounds, as if he had little to no regard for his own well being.

“This is completely unnecessary,” Vegeta grumbled, as Bulma fiddled with the dials of her shower. “You're acting as though I'm incapable of cleaning myself.”

“Aren't you a prince?” she countered, testing the temperature with the back of her hand. “Wouldn't you have had servants who did this kind of thing for you back home?”

'I suppose.”

“Then let me do this for you, your royal highness.”

The use of his formal title seemed to work wonders, and his body language changed from highly strung and tightly wound, to Vegeta's version of relaxed. Bulma returned to him and peeled off what was left of his battle suit, frowning to herself when that only uncovered more bruises and scrapes that had otherwise been hidden. The outline of his chest plates were imprinted onto his skin like shadows, suggesting that something had hit him with enough force to crush the material into his flesh, and from the shards of it melted into the remains of his clothes she guessed he'd interfered with one of his own ki blasts.

When she finally had Vegeta undressed, and he stood naked before her, her breath caught on an inhale. She had called him many things in the past, many of which were insults when they were warring about his training regime, or his inability to exercise patience and restrain, but she couldn't recall if 'beautiful' was one of them. In spite of the fresh injuries, and in spite of the gnarled, fleshy scars that seemed to occupy every inch of visible skin, he really was beautiful. He was compact and tight, not a single ounce of fat to be found anywhere she may possibly look or touch, and his body – scars included – told tales of his troubled life.

Each long healed wound was carved into his flesh acted as a tattooed reminder of both his victories and his failings; the connecting seems of a patchwork person who had never been given the chance to be anything more than a monster.

Acutely aware that Vegeta was staring at her, she hesitated for a second before abandoning her own clothes into a pile next to the blue rags she had stripped off of him, feeling more self conscious in her nudity than she had ever felt in the several months they'd been regularly engaging in intercourse. For a second she was worried that the moment might be ruined, that he may take her nudity as a cue to ravage her, but to Bulma's surprise Vegeta stayed stoic, simply waiting for her to direct him further.

Wordlessly Bulma took his hand and led him towards the shower, the hot spray immediately serving to turn her skin pink, while revealing the honey-brown of his with the swirling of blood and viscous down the plughole.

Her hands shook as she reached for the soap, almost dropping the bar several times. Her anxiety was born form a culmination of all that had happened – of the fight, of Vegeta's injuries, of his absence – and it's as unfamiliar as it is uncomfortable. _Snap out of it!_ She mentally scolded herself, frowning at her trembling fingers. _You're Bulma Briefs. Why the hell are you getting so nervous around some_ _ **guy**_ _? You're the most powerful woman in the world, if not this entire goddamn universe._

Feeling somewhat more confident, Bulma lathered up her hands and a loofa and began working at cleaning Vegeta's skin, mindful of every tiny imperfection. The suds and the water that continued to run off of him were darkened by a weeks worth of grime, but slowly he began to resemble the Vegeta she had come to know. His dark, suffocating gaze never left her, but it was somewhat comforting. More curious than anything else, as though he couldn't quite wrap his head around what was going on.

She could understand that, she was struggling somewhat herself.

Wincing when she reached his chest, and some of his more prominent injuries, Bulma gingerly dabbed at the abused flesh. For the most part, either from a higher pain tolerance or simply pride, it was sometimes impossible to tell which, Vegeta didn't react other than to shift his weight to better accommodate Bulma's actions. He was half-hard, though neither of them drew any attention towards the fact, and she was _sure_ that he was almost enjoying being touched without ulterior motives. No desire to hurt him or fuck him, just the need to care for him.

It was pleasant.

When she'd finally finished washing his body Bulma groped for the shampoo bottle, pouring a generous dollop into her palm before working it into his mane. His hair, coarse and almost fur like, lay flat against his skull neck, and it was one of the only times she had ever seen it in anything other that it's traditional, unruly flame. It reminded her of when he had first returned to Earth and she'd forced him to clean up, and how she'd caught a glance of him in the shower. Things were so different now, and never in her wildest dreams would she have anticipated that she would one day be joining him in the shower.

He made a small contented noise as her fingers massaged his scalp, leaning his head back into the touch and closing his eyes. Smiling to herself, Bulma worked the lather a little harder into Vegeta's hair and was rewarded with a throaty moan and the twitching of Vegeta's own lips. But, eager not to cross the lines they had wordlessly established, she ceased her teasing and returned to the job at hand; working the soap through his hair and rinsing it out with painstaking care.

When the last of the suds disappeared Bulma made an attempt to turn the shower off, surprised when a strong hand caught her wrist before she could reach the faucet.

Vegeta faltered, as though arguing with himself about something, before reaching down and taking the soap from her hands, lathering it up beneath the spray and smoothing the suds across Bulma's skin. He started with her arms, just as she had done with him, following the same route with painstaking delicacy as he humbled himself before her. His palms were rough and hot against her skin, her heart skipping several beats when he brushed over her chest, and dipped from the curve of her spine to her backside. She was vaguely aware of the fact that she was shaking again, but she could do little to control it.

He was not only of royal blood, but a superior warrior, and the implication behind his attendance to her needs was not lost on her, even in her state of mental unrest. He should, by all rights, be outraged at the thought of performing such a submissive act, but he seemed only cautious; choosing to do so of his own free will.

It was one thing for her to tend to him when he was all beat up and stubbornly incapable of caring for himself, but another for the tables to turn and for him to return the favour on his own volition.

When he reached her hair he tucked what he could behind her ear, letting his hand settle against her cheek for a moment before continuing on. All the while Vegeta's actions were causing Bulma's mind to go into overdrive, scattered thoughts that ping-ponged around, utterly displaced and helpless to his touch.

As the last of the soap circled down the drain, Vegeta leaned in close, their lips only a whisper apart, and she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead Vegeta whispered something, a guttural language she didn't have any hope of deciphering, before retracting and turning the shower off. The entire en-suit was enveloped in a thick, foggy steam, giving it an ethereal, dream-like quality, and when Vegeta handed her a towel she accepted it with a rising blush.

Whatever had engulfed them followed the pair back into Bulma's bedroom, and led them to her bed, where Vegeta sat patiently and quietly, awaiting the next step. With the same delicacy as in the bathroom, Bulma pulled out a fist aid kit and began dressing the worst of Vegeta's injuries, bracing herself for the sharp bite of his tongue when she pulled out various ointments and bandages, but never receiving it.

He was still acting surprisingly docile, allowing her to fuss over him without protest. A small, almost innocent part of her heart swelled, daring to hope that he was baring the fuss so well because he had missed her as much as she had missed him during his elongated temper tantrum. Her pulse beat loudly in her ears, and as she finished tying off the last bandage around his waist, Bulma felt overrun by a hot, aching desire that could no longer be pushed aside.

“Why won't you let me touch you?” She asked, finally breaking the silence that had seized them since their return to Capsule Corp..

“You touch me all the time,” Vegeta nodded towards the door to the en-suit. “You were just touching me.”

“No... I mean... when we're _together._ ”

He was blushing again, as he was prone to doing whenever their conversation turned sexual and they weren't currently engaged in the act. “It's a... sensitive part of the body to trust another creature with. Hands and mouths can do a substantial amount of damage.”

Bulma pouted. “And you don't trust me?”

“I didn't say that, did I?”

“No, but you don't let me touch you either.”

Vegeta seemed to dwell on that fact, his lips pursing together and the crease between his eyes deepening.

“Can I touch you now?” Mindful of his injuries, her hand trailed a path between his navel and his groin, pausing just above the base of the erection he had been sporting since their evening began. She could feel the immediate rush of blood, the tightening and swelling of flesh, experimentally she drew a small circle against his skin with the tip of her finger, suppressing a quiet moan of her own when Vegeta's mouth fell open involuntarily and a low whine escaped his throat.

She made no further attempt to touch him, waiting for his consent or his rejection, and when he took a deep breath to steady himself she fully expected him to choose the latter. Instead, much to her surprise, his hand settled over hers, before urging it down to encircle him.The rhythm he set was slow at first, his eyes darker than usual as they locked with hers as their hands worked up and down, but he soon began to pick up the pace, their fingers becoming sticky with pre-cum, and when he was satisfied that she had mastered the technique he relinquished control and let his hand slip away.

She worked him with her hands for a while, enamoured with the way his body reacted to her touch; the way his hips rocked ever-so-slightly, the way his head would occasionally loll back and his lips would utter something in a low and guttural language she didn't understand, the fingers that would curl into fists so tight that the whites of his knuckles contrasted sharply with the deep, dark bronze of his skin.

Bulma felt powerful. And brave.

Watching Vegeta's face carefully Bulma released his cock and sank to her knees, her now free hands settling on his thighs. Her lips were only centimetres away from the head, darkened and engorged, and she swept her tongue across them in anticipation. She leaned in to close the distance, only to have a hand tangle itself in her hair.

Stopping, she lifted her gaze to meet Vegeta's. “Can I?”

His adams apple bobbed, and he looked pained, but slowly he released his grip on her hair, though his hand didn't leave her head completely, and nodded.

 

\--------

Bulma tried to collect her breath, her limbs still jellied and refusing to co-operate. Every muscle screamed with a heady mixture of exhaustion and pleasure, and when she dared to glance over in the Saiyan's direction, while not struggling for air as she was, she found him to be red faced and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat.

Reacquainting herself with his body, no matter how brief their parting had been, was an overwhelming experience. With the added bonus of him _finally_ allowing her to touch him as she wished, to bring him to the edge (and over it) with her hands and mouth, she felt like a goddess.

“Vegeta?”

He blinked, as though not fully aware of his surroundings. “What is it, woman?”

“If I built you a working ship again, would you take me with you?”

“What?”

“To space,” Bulma clarified, outstretching a wobbly arm towards the ceiling. “I'm a genius, and an excellent pilot, but I can't really defend myself out there, you know. I need a bodyguard. I want to see the stars.”

Vegeta snorted to himself, but the tone suggested an edge of humour rather than malice. “Take Kakarot or one of the other weaklings.”

“They don't know space like you do. You actually know what you're doing.”

“Tch.”

They had dove head first into uncharted waters, a fresh new intimacy established between them, and Bulma couldn't help but radiate with joy simply thinking about it. Smiling to herself, Bulma added, “besides, I don't want to go with them. I want to go with you.”

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, some emotion passing over his features that was impossible for her to discern. “I suppose having you accompany me would be... acceptable. Though I can't see the fools you associate with taking very kindly to it.”

“Since when did you care what they think?”

“I don't,” Vegeta said quietly, one of his hands reaching over to brush a pattern across Bulma's hips. Despite their shower beads of sweat had gathered on her flushed skin, and he swept them away with the smooth flick of his wrist. “What will you do when I have taken my rightful place as ruler of the universe?”

“Huh?”

“Well, you can't expect me to babysit you forever. I'd provide you with protection enough to grant you safe passage through my territory, but I wont have time to entertain you forever.”

“Oh...” Bulma said, the sound little more than a tight squeak. She cleared her throat and pressed further, despite knowing it would do her more harm than good. The conversation had suddenly taken a sour turn, and the warmth she had felt just minutes before was replaced with an anxious bubbling that pumped uncomfortably through her veins. “So when you're the self proclaimed king of the galaxy, you're just going to forget about me, huh?”

Vegeta smirked. “You're more than welcome to stick around and make yourself useful as an engineer or consort, preferably the latter or a combination of the two.”

“Is that all you see me as? A mechanic and a fuck?”

“What else is there?”

The way her insides began to immediately fester, threatening to spill all over the ground in front of her in all their rotten, bloody glory if improperly handled, knocked Bulma for six, and it was all she could do to contain herself enough to hide her reaction.

She had let things escalate too far, had become too used to sharing her body with him, sharing her bed, and had begun to consider him as something similar to a boyfriend. Her feelings for Vegeta had manifested beyond pity, beyond friendship, and beyond mutually beneficial bedwarmer, and though she wasn't able to articulate them properly, they toed the line between stupid and stupider. The fact that she felt hurt at his suggestion that he saw her as little more than a sexual convenience who could, and would, abandon her when he no longer needed her was further proof that she had been the one to soil things. He was merely playing within the guidelines of unaccountability that they had set out. That _she_ had set out. Abiding by the mutual agreement that this was sex, and nothing more.

She was not.

The rules were established and, as she was prone to doing, she had smashed through them, but in doing so she had obliterated the shield around her heart and left herself vulnerable for attack.

And, of course, Vegeta was a predator willing to take advantage of the weaknesses in her defence.

In her naivety she had fooled herself into thinking that this, whatever this was, had evolved into something akin to a relationship, that his reliance on her had branched out beyond the minimal benefits that her company supplied him with. The shower and their heated lovemaking (although the term 'fucking' now seemed more apt) had been little more than a willingness on his half to have needs met, with Bulma being the only creature in all of existence he trusted enough to fill such needs.

If he cared about her at all it was in the form of a friendly alliance, and nothing else. The romantic filter than she had adopted was merely an internal projection that she has been trying, perhaps subconsciously, to will into reality.

Feeling slightly sick Bulma pushed herself up and off the bed, snatching whatever was closest to hand from her closet and pulling it on in a rush. Dulled by her shame and anger, she was vaguely aware of Vegeta asking her questions, demanding her attention, but the burn in her eyes and the strangled ache in her chest kept her pressing on without so much as a backward glance.

She left him, alone in her room, ranting to himself, and took the stairs two at a time. By the time she had reached the hallway connecting the main building with the medical wing, Bulma was practically sprinting, her lip quivering her still damp hair whipping behind her.

Yamcha had been sleeping, but he jumped awake when Bulma slammed the door open, his expression changing from startled, to sleepy, to concerned in a matter of seconds. He settled on the last, and reached his good hand out towards her.

“Bulma, you're crying. Did something happen? What's wrong?”

For her own sake Bulma ignored the barrage of questions, wiping away a few wayward tears with the back of her hand. She felt so guilty and used, and standing in front of Yamcha having just slept with Vegeta felt like a colossal betrayal against all the parties involved.

“Yamcha, is that offer still open? About us starting again? Because I want to take you up on it.”

\--------

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Vegeta. What a bastard you were (unlike current, DBS shirtless/gloveless Vegeta)
> 
> I'd just like to say how incredibly touched I am by how many of you reached out to check on me/offered your support. I currently have 2 different surgeries scheduled for the next few months, and my fiancé is going to be undergoing physiotherapy for the foreseeable future. There's still a lot going on, especially in terms of sorting out the medical insurance after the accident, but it means so much to me that so many of you have taken the time - both on here and on tumblr - to check up on me and send me your well wishes. Hopefully soon we'll both be back to full health.
> 
> As usual you can find me on ρατrϵon (where I post updates 24-48 hours in advance) and Ko-Fi, as well as on Tumblr and Twitter!


	10. If At First You Don't Succeed

Yamcha grinned as the plaster fell away, flexing his muscles, the skin slightly pale and shrivelled, and revelling in the use of his arm once again. Krillin, true to his word, had returned with a senzu bean, carrying a warning from Korin that they were in very limited supply, and if they wanted any for the battle against the androids they would have to use them _sparingly_ from now on. His visit had been fleeting, muttering something about not trusting Oolong and Roshi alone with their new television set for extended periods of time, but he _had_ congratulated the pair of them for getting back together. Again.

Apparently everyone had thought that the last time would have been the _last_ time.

Admittedly, so had Bulma.

Bulma just watched, wiping her hands on the thighs of her greasy overalls, willing away – incredibly unsuccessfully – the unease knotting in her stomach. The fact that her on-off boyfriend (or was it still ex-boyfriend? She was having a hard time keeping up) had split his cast clean in two just by twitching a muscle _should_ have done something for her, right? Should have had her fawning over his strength, smoothing his hair – which had grown out long and shaggy again, and was in desperate need of cutting – out of his face so that she could press her lips to his undisturbed. But she was distracted, her stomach lurching while her thoughts rushed by so quickly that at times she felt as though she may pass out.

It had been four days since Vegeta had returned home. Four days since the last time she'd slept with him. Four days since he'd lowered his guard around her and _finally_ allowed her to touch him unrestrained.

Four days since she'd agreed to reignite a relationship that had gone stale long before her interests had strayed towards alien flesh.

“I feel great!” Yamcha said excitedly, bouncing his weight from leg to leg. “Man, imagine if Korin could mass produce this stuff and turn it into an energy drink or something?”

“Yeah,” Bulma replied, offering him a weak smile as she wrapped her arms about her middle. She wanted to vomit. Had been fighting back the urge on and off for days now. Mostly when life forced her to share a room with either of the men she was sort-of seeing. Sometimes all she had to do was think about them. “It would be pretty useful.”

“You're tell me. If we'd have had something like that then we would have kicked Saiyan ass,” Yamcha stopped his preening, turning to face Bulma, his eyebrows immediately knitting together in concern. “Are you feeling okay? You don't look so good?”

 _I'm fine, I'm just working out how to tell you that I've been sleeping with Vegeta. And how to tell Vegeta that I'm going to go back to sleeping with_ _ **you**_ _._ “I'm fine,” Bulma lied, forcing a smile. “Impending doom, grumpy house guests and struggling to decide what to wear to the company gala. You know how it is.”

Yamcha brightened, his sweet, trusting smile just making Bulma feel worse. He flicked the remnants of white plaster off of his clothes, dusting himself off before he bumped his shoulder playfully against hers. “You know, you don't always have to worry about everyone else. You've been putting up with our crap long enough. Just leave it to us to handle the androids.”

“Huh, you've changed your tune.”

“Well, I have my good luck charm back now, don't I?” A hand reached out to squeeze hers gently, and Bulma forgot how to breathe. “I'm feeling like my old self again.”

“I don't think I've ever brought you much luck, Yamcha. Remember the World Tournaments? Or the fight against the Saiyans? I didn't bring you good luck then. Hell, even on Namek pretty much everyone I came into contact with died. I'm nobodies lucky charm.”

“Woah, slow down there. No need to be so down in the dumps, ya know,” he said, giving her hand another reassuring squeeze. “I know something that will cheer you up. Do you remember that little Italian place we used to go to when we were kids?”

Bulma's throat felt dry and swollen, “I guess?”

“Great! 'Cause I've booked us a table there for Friday night!”

“F-friday? Like _this_ Friday?”

“Yeah, is there a problem with that, B?”

 _Well it only gives me four-and-a-half days to tell the Prince of Explosive Tempers that I'm pretty much dumping him and I'm not exactly sure how **that** is going to go down. _“No, no problem at all. I can't wait.”

At that Yamcha pulled her into his arms, the embrace tight and warm, his nose finding the crook of her neck and inhaling so deeply that she felt the swell of his lungs against her cheek. His heartbeat danced erratically, though she was, above all else, pleased that she could hear it beat at all, and she willed herself to dig deeper and drag out more of _that_ emotion, to harness the pain that had once crumbled her entire universe when she'd thought she'd lost him for good, and channel it into the love she knew he deserved. But aside from the overwhelming relief that he was alive and safe she failed to muster anything more substantial.

“I'm so glad,” Yamcha whispered against her skin, his voice thick. “This is like a dream come true.”

A single tear, scorching and heavy, unglued itself from between her lashes and rolled down her cheek. “Yeah, it is.”

 

\--------

Vegeta had, as per usual, sequestered himself away in the Gravity Room after their non-argument.

He hadn't come to her room, hadn't initiated risky sex on the kitchen counter when they'd crossed paths after a particularly long night in the lab and a marathon training session in the GR. He hadn't turned his demands for hardier, stronger bots into an excuse to punish her by making her beg for release, and he hadn't even allowed his hungry, predatory gaze to linger on her while in the company of others.

It was like they'd slammed on a factory reset and things had snapped back to the way they were before.

Bulma hated it.

Yamcha had flown off to resume training with the promise to return for their date just a few hours previous, and now Bulma found herself alone in the kitchen with a man who had barely acknowledged her in recent days as he dug through the contents of cupboards to find something to calm his enormous appetite.

Vegeta had barely offered her more than a cursory glance when he strode in, sweat beading and rolling down his skin, catching in scars and disappearing beneath his shorts with the mouth-watering 'V' of his hips. She had hoped, stupidly, that he would say or do _something_ to sweep her off of her feet; sweep an arm across the table she was perched at and scatter her blueprints across the room so that he could ravage her, or perhaps press his lips to the shell of her ear and tell her how much he had missed her and extend an invitation to his room later that night. But nothing. He seemed not to care at all that she had stormed out on him and they'd barely spoken since.

Which is why Bulma had made the decision to do this, wasn't it?

"Vegeta?" Bulma asked, gnawing on a hangnail.

"What is it, woman?" The Saiyan grumbled, pulling out a can of something to inspect, wrinkling his nose, and returning it to root around in the pantry some more.

"We need to talk. I... i need to tell you something."

"Well, out with it." His tone was a mixture of impatience and boredom - standard for Vegeta - but it lacked any sort of real anger. Though the difference was subtle, for reasons unknown to her Vegeta had always spoken to her with more respect than the others, even before she'd started catering to his physical needs, and she appreciated it. Even if it did make this particular conversation harder.

"It's about Yamcha," she said quietly. The hangnail tore, and a small bead of blood began to ooze from the wound. Vegeta turned to face her, sniffing the air and glancing at her finger, before returning his attention to the food.

"Let me guess, he's gotten himself killed again and you need me to help you rush around the world in search of the Dragon Balls?"

"Don't be such a dick. You've died the same number of times that he has," Bulma said defensively. It earned a scoff, and a muffled ' _at least I died like a warrior up against a_ _ **real**_ _threat and not a fucking Saibamen',_ but he otherwise stayed focused on his search for something to satiate his giant appetite. Bulma knew she had to press on, but the lump lodged in her throat was constricting her airway, and she couldn't formulate the words. Finally, closing her eyes as she spoke, she managed: "he's asked me out on date. To see if we can try again."

For a few seconds Vegeta seemed to freeze, and when she peaked through her lashes Bulma swore she could see the muscles in his arms and neck tightening. She was suddenly painfully aware of her heartbeat, almost roaring in her ears, and her face felt as though it was on fire.

"So?" Vegeta replied after what felt like an age. His voice was controlled, and she couldn't read him. "Why are you informing me?"

"Well, I just thought 'cause we, ya know... we kinda have a _thing_ ," Bulma gestured vaguely with her hands. "And I wanted to see if you were ... okay with it."

Vegeta snatched a sack of apples and a full loaf of bread from the pantry, turning his body completely away from her. "Do whatever you want, it's none of my concern."

Despite herself, Bulma deflated. She didn't know what she had expected him to say, but his reaction disappointed her. Sure, he was a man of few words and little emotion, but she had been sharing her home with him for nearly two years now, and his bed for several months. She had anticipated some sort of resistance, perhaps even jealousy, and if she was honest with herself, she'd _wanted_ Vegeta to fight for her.

"Oh," she finally managed, fighting back the overwhelming need to either fold in on herself and break, or explode outwardly in anger. Either scenario would end up making her look foolish in front of the Saiyan, revealing that she had broken the rule agreed upon and extended her feelings beyond the agreed upon parameters of their 'relationship'.

“Is that all?” Vegeta demanded, taking one of the apples and devouring it in three large bites, the juice dribbling down his chin. He made no effort to clean himself up, and it should have made him look foolish, but his gaze was penetrating and dangerous, and had Bulma been a lesser woman she would have shrank back.

But she wasn't a lesser woman. She was Bulma Briefs, and his self entitled attitude only served to stoke her anger. “Yes, that _is_ all,” she spat, hands going to her hips. “Unless there's something you'd like to add, Vegeta? Some witty, cutting remark about how weak and pathetic we all are, and how much greater you are with all of your one-and-a-half subjects to rule over and your endless pool of power.”

“Tch,” Vegeta's head snapped to the side, his jaw setting hard and his throat cording. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Bulma smiled sweetly, her gaze narrowing dangerously. “Good.”

“ _Good_.”

\--------

Vegeta fired a single blast of ki at one of the training bots, dodging easily when the shot ricochetted off of the drone's metal surface and came hurtling back his way. The blast found the domed wall of the Gravity Room where it fizzled and died unceremoniously, leaving a large black scorch mark in its wake that the woman would inevitably bitch at him about when she discovered it.

Part of him perked up at the thought, allowing him to indulge in the image of her pretty little face twisted in rage as her voice rang out several octaves higher than usual, huffing and puffing on her tip-toes in attempt to use the advantage of height against him. Her outburst would culminate in blood pooling in his crotch and her greasy overalls abandoned in a pile on the GR floor alongside his training shorts, and the burn would be forgotten about for the better half of an afternoon.

Except Bulma had made it clear that such a liaison would no longer be on the cards, and the thought of giving her up wounded Vegeta more than he liked to think about.

He had grown attached to her, and he hated himself for it.

What would his father say?

Saiyans typically had no use for long term partnerships, with the royal bloodline being the only exception. Even then, such unions were more a convenience – to ensure the continuation of only the strongest, most able fighters. They were a warrior race, who had long since abandoned all ideas of sentiment and affection, weaknesses and affronts to their nature, and it had served them well for generations.

He had always thought himself above the desires of the flesh, and certainly beyond primitive notions of sentimentality. It had allowed him to treat the only fellow Saiyans he'd had access to in over twenty-five years of servitude as though they were disposable, feeling little to nothing when faced with their deaths. It's what had kept him alive for the quarter of a century he'd been little more than a glorified slave, knowing that he no true personal bonds on his broken planet to truly miss, only the title and pride of his race. He had no friends, no real family, and certainly no lover.

Until now.

Vegeta was smart enough to know that the pull he felt towards the human woman was beyond unnatural. It commanded her closeness, her safety and, above all, her happiness, as though her well-being were closely intertwined with his own. It had been something he had stumbled clumsily into; one minute he'd merely been fucking her to alleviate the lonely boredom, to help pursue a triumph of strength, and the next he'd been spilling his darkest secrets to her in the sanctuary of her bed chambers, counting down the minutes of his training session so that he may bury himself in her and forget the existence of everything in the universe beyond _her_.

Allowing Bulma to touch him, engaging in such an intimate act, it had just been too overwhelming, and deflecting had been a much more tolerable way of dealing with things than actually articulating how he felt.

Implying that she was little more than a convenience to him had just felt like an easy solution to rectify a situation that had left him feeling raw and over-exposed.

But it had backfired spectacularly, and now Vegeta found himself seething alone because he'd unwittingly pushed the woman back into the arms of the male he'd only just took her from.

The very thought of Yamcha touching her again, knowing her as intimately as he had come to know her in recent months, infuriated Vegeta in a way that was altogether unfamiliar. The relationship was a suffering abomination, bringing neither party true joy, and while it was easier not to care back when he'd first landed on Earth and he simply _didn't_ care, knowing that Bulma was _settling_ for less than she deserved irked Vegeta more than the rejection itself.

The blackened, vacuous spot in his chest that his heart should have occupied ached to tell her she was superior to that _filth_ in every way – that accepting anything less than the most powerful, worthy, virile male in the universe, one that would be able to bring entire planets to their knees at her bidding, was resigning herself to a lifetime of disappointment. But doing so would go against a millennia of evolution, wounding his pride in the process, and so he was left with little to do other than lament on the stupidity of her decision.

White hot energy licked at his palms, a comfortable surge of destructive power that grounded him against all intrusive thoughts involving his host and her apparent preference for weaker, inferior males who didn't even belong in the same category as Vegeta himself.

Power. Chaos. Pain.

Old, familiar allies.

It had been far too long since he'd killed something, not since Namek, and the desire to devastate overwhelmed whatever it was that had stirred within Vegeta upon thinking of the woman. Even without the ascension to The Legendary, which he _would_ master, he would single-handedly defeat the androids as soon as they touched down on Earth. Then, when their metal innards were melted at his feet, he would finally best Kakarot and reclaim his title as the greatest Saiyan to have ever lived.

With Kakarot fallen the rest of the planet would shortly follow; tearing each and every one of those pathetic warriors limb-from-limb would be something Vegeta would savour, but once they were dealt with he would tear through the rest of the planet as quickly as possible. He could almost smell the familiar odour of blood and soot, feel the smouldering heat of burning cities deep in his lungs.

Vegeta would end his dry spell with a cacophony of butchery that would assuage the aching absence of _something_ plaguing his soul.

His cock twitched and began to stiffen at the thought.

Then reality, cold and sobering, slammed into Vegeta almost immediately, denying him the opportunity to relish in his fantasy.

One question still remained: what would he do with Bulma now?

Keeping her alive had always been the plan. From the moment she demonstrated her superior intellect and presented him with equipment that even Frieza's top scientists hadn't been capable of creating he'd decided that she would come with him when his business on this miserable rock finally staggered to a close. He'd anticipated a struggle, especially given his desire, no, _need,_ to murder every other living thing on Earth before he departed, but dragging her with him by force had never presented itself as an issue back then.

Then, after they'd started sleeping together he'd planned only on killing Kakarot – besting him in a fair battle that surely she could air no complaints about – and leaving every other pitiful being alive. She wouldn't struggle beyond her usual pouting and screeching, but he could silence her then with his body and she would melt against him as she always did, and life among the stars would be simple.

But now, with their affair called off, he had no reason to spare her friends and so his initial plan would go ahead. Vegeta could still spare the woman, but she would go with him hissing and spitting, and now he wasn't so sure he could still go through with being the cause of her on-going misery. He definitely wouldn't be able to force himself on her, and he now respected her far too much to prolong her agony. He had lived with the burden of extinction and enslavement for long enough to know he couldn't bring himself to force her to go through the same.

Which left another, kinder option: killing her. He had killed Nappa easily enough, and felt very little other than annoyance after learning of Raditz's death, and so exterminating companions without care was something Vegeta knew himself to be capable of. He would probably kill her first, before Kakarot and her friends, perhaps even before the androids, making it quick and clean and painless. It would take no effort at all to snap her delicate little neck, ensuring that she didn't have to go through the extra turmoil of watching her world burn around her. He owed her that much at least. Yamcha's execution he would drag out, but hers would be over before she would even be able to register what was happening.

A mercy killing.

Except the thought of touching her violently, no matter how good his intentions, crippled Vegeta. Literally making his knees buckle and his breathing quicken. He knew with an unfamiliar certainty that when faced with her wide, dark blue eyes and trembling limbs he would hesitate.

So what was he to do?

Deciding he didn't want to ponder the matter any further, Vegeta went over to the center console and increased the number of drones, small panels on the walls immediately releasing metal orbs that uncurled themselves and set their laser sights on him.

\--------

The Capsule Corp. compound was huge, certainly large enough to get lost in with little hope of bumping into a particular individual. Vegeta, it seemed, had taken advantage of that fact, given he had spent the last few days dutifully ignoring her. It was almost as if he existed only in the shifting shadows of the facility, and Bulma had barely seen hide nor hair of him. There had been a few tense moments of shared space, usually when they were both raiding the kitchen for something to gorge themselves on. He had, painfully, said nothing to her. Not that he was a particularly big talker anyway, at least not during the day. Occasionally, when they both lay sweaty and satisfied in one another's arms, and when his latest orgasm had rendered him particularly mellow, he'd tell her stories and share anecdotes with her.

They mostly revolved around Saiyan traditions and legends, but if she was lucky he'd feed her tidbits from his troubled childhood. Battles fought, aliens encountered, little acts of defiance against the tyrannical Frieza. She suspected that these tales were heavily edited to omit most of the bad stuff, and Bulma didn't really understand a lot of what he was saying, the foreign words and phrases he used serving to remind her he really was an _alien_ , but she gladly took whatever she could, interjecting to ask questions or urge him on. In those vulnerable moments his eyes sparkled with a pride far more genuine than the cocky charade he'd display in battle, and yet she couldn't help but notice the aching sadness bubbling beneath the surface. It had occurred to her, half-way through an impassioned tale about he first time he'd lost his tail, that Vegeta was incredibly lonely, and essentially the very last of his kind.

Goku had shown little-to-no interest in his true heritage - save to harness its power - and Gohan was far too human to really care. He was the Prince of an extinct race, trapped on a world he didn't know. She had been his only release, and now he had no-one.

Bulma sighed, cupping her mug of coffee with both hands and stared at the dark liquid. It felt ridiculous to say she missed a man that she lived with, but she did. She had become accustomed to their new life style, polite (or not so polite, as was often the case with Vegeta) indifference in the presence of others, and a frenzy of hungry lips and aching bodies in privacy. It had only been going on for a short while, but Bulma had already become acclimated to sneaking into his bed, or allowing him to sneak into hers, falling asleep with her head on his chest and one of his battle scarred arms draped lazily across her waist.

Bulma's bed felt uncomfortably empty now, cold and far too big for just her.

She took a large sip of her coffee, wincing when the hot liquid burnt her throat. Bulma couldn't help but wonder if she'd made a mistake agreeing to this date.

By human standards, Yamcha was a fine specimen: handsome, powerful and brave. He'd laid his life on the line for the good of the planet countless times, and most women could only dream of having a man like him by their side. Once upon a time, Bulma had counted herself among those girls, but things had changed.

Yamcha was _safe._ He was all she really knew, and despite his flirtatious, womanising nature (an unfortunate consequence of his ever increasing confidence), he was reliable in his own messy way and she knew he'd be with her long term. He could offer her marriage and, eventually, children, and he would treat her with respect and kindness until the moment either one of them drew their final breath.

Vegeta was... well, 'unpredictable' would be a colossal understatement. Despite the glimpses of something _else_ he had offered her (and _only_ her) she knew that he could pick up and leave any time he desired, and that he walked a very fine line between good and evil. Not too long ago he'd been gleefully eviscerating planets and wiping out entire races, hell, he'd intended to do the same to their planet. Though his defeat against Goku and his death on Namek had changed something within Vegeta, Bulma had no idea how permanent this change would be. He could snap back into old habits at any moment, and then it would be up to her friends to end his life.

And she would let them, even at the expense of her own heart.

That was something she'd never have to worry about with her ex-boyfriend. He was driven by the desire to do good, even if he fumbled and failed on occasion. His defeat during the Saiyan invasion had knocked his confidence in combat, sure, but he had still elected to train harder than he ever had before in preparation for the arrival of the androids. The gap between the others and the likes of Goku and Vegeta was expanding with every passing day, and still Yamcha tried. Bulma admired him for that, and not so long ago that bravery would have her swooning like a schoolgirl, but not any more.

She wasn't sure when things had changed. Watching him die had been one of the most traumatising moments of her life, and she had felt her hopes and dreams for the future rush out of her as Yamcha's body shuddered and convulsed in death. Vegeta and his companion had just _laughed_ as her world caved in around her, and she'd vowed to do whatever it took to avenge Yamcha. She'd voyaged halfway across the galaxy to gather the Namekian Dragon Balls, risked her life as the planet literally began to decay beneath her feet, and it had changed her.

All three of them had returned to Earth altered somehow, and the jigsaw pieces of their lives simply didn't slot together the way that they used to.

She was forcing herself to go back to a life that she had long outgrown, and the fit was more than uncomfortable.

She loved Yamcha, and she knew deep in her heart that she would never stop loving Yamcha. But she loved him in the same way she loved Goku, or Krillin, or any of their other friends. She would go to the ends of the universe to protect him – she had already done so – but she wasn't _in love_ with him.

Not any more.

And she felt painfully close to feeling more for Vegeta than she was comfortable with.

But what could Vegeta offer her? He had made it more than apparent that while he may respect her and her genius more than most, he cared very little for her as a person. He would bring her with him into the depths of space, but only as a consort or mechanic who wouldn't even make the final cut if it came down to it. She was simply convenience as she was now, an extremely attractive woman of a similar enough species who was there and willing to put up with him. Nothing more. If, by some miracle, he wanted her, wanted to settle down with her, what then?

Saiyans didn't age. At least, not at the same rate humans did. Goku had barely aged a day since his wedding day as a _teenager_ , and aside from bulking up, and growing an inch or two taller, Vegeta remained unchanged from the moment he'd first landed on Earth. She would never admit to her friend, not wanting to upset or offend her, but she'd already noticed the gap between Chi Chi and Goku widening in terms of the ageing process. With each year that passed it became more apparent that Goku was immune to getting older, still so boyish in every possible way, whereas Chi Chi was not. The gap was not so noticeable when all parties were in their twenties, but time would be unkind to the humans in the group sooner rather than later.

So where would that leave Bulma in twenty or thirty years time? Old and wrinkled and undesirable, while Vegeta himself barely looked thirty?

Of course, this was all hypothetical, and she laughed bitterly to herself. Not even Shenron could make Vegeta settle down, and certainly not with her. He didn't seem the type to fall in love and embrace human traditions of romance and family. He was too guarded, and the walls he'd built around himself were too high. Bulma had been lucky enough to chip away at a few bricks, but she was yet to even scratch the surface.

And, perhaps, it was simply a biological incapability.

Goku's own interest in love and sex seemed extremely limited, and while he obviously cared about Chi Chi Bulma doubted that he would have pursued her and settled down with her on his own volition. Perhaps Saiyans simply didn't possess the capability to 'mate' or bond or whatever to one another in the same way that humans did. After all, she couldn't remember Vegeta ever talking about his mother, and he'd seemed genuinely surprised to learn how deeply attached Goku and his wife were as though the concepts were foreign to him.

Maybe Bulma had been expecting far too much from him, and their agreement that sex was just sex had been more in keeping with Saiyan culture from the very beginning. Which made Yamcha the better candidate for her happiness, right?

"Oh Bulma, there you are! I've been trying to find you all morning."

Her father's voice roused her from her train of thought, and she blinked rapidly. Her father shifted nervously, hands thrust deep into his pockets and he offered her a weak, almost wary smile.

"Hey dad, everything okay?"

He sat the table to join her, one hand leaving his lab coat to reach across the table and give her arm a reassuring squeeze. "Oh yes, everything's fine. It's Vegeta who's looking for you. He's been complaining all morning about a fault in the Gravity Room, and so far no one has been able to fix it."

Bulma cringed, and she couldn't help the little groan that involuntary escaped her lips. As much as she wanted to be around the Saiyan prince, she didn't want to face the hostile awkwardness of his presence.

"Can't you do it?"

Dr Briefs shrugged, "I've already tried I'm afraid, but I haven't had much luck. Most of the technology in there is of your creation."

Bulma scoffed, bringing the cup to her lips and swallowing another gulp of coffee. “Fine, if you see him tell him I'll fix it in the morning.”

“Honey,” her father began, “I don't think they'll be a room left to fix if you make him wait that long. He's not in the best of moods.”

“Fantastic,” Bulma groaned, ducking her head into her hands and expelling a quick, sharp huff of air through her nose. Her father frowned.

“Bulma dear, pardon an old man for prying, but are you okay?”

“I will be once I've dealt with his royal ass-ness.”

“No, no, that's not what I meant,” he thumbed at his moustache thoughtfully. “You haven't been yourself lately. Not since that boy Yamcha started showing up around here more often again. You seem distracted and unhappy.”

“I'm fine dad, honestly. I've just been... busy.”

“Hmmm,” Doctor Briefs hummed. “You're always busy, but I do know that you were smiling a lot more in recent months, and I think it has something to do with that young man out there in the Gravity Room. But with Yamcha returning here you seem to be spending less time with Vegeta, and you've lost your spark again,” he reached out to take Bulma's hand in his own, squeezing it gently. “There's no shame in moving on, and in spite of his rough exterior I believe that Vegeta is a good man deep down; you've always had an eye for spotting the diamonds in the rough. If Yamcha isn't the one making you happy any more you don't need to force things between the two of you. Especially if the person you're actually supposed to be with is waiting for you at home.”

Bulma tried to protest, but the only noise she could summon was a strangled whine that got lost in her throat. Her whole body felt hot, and for a mad, confusing minute all Bulma could think of was a nature documentary she had once watched in which a swarm of bees cooked a hornet alive. Everything was just too suffocating, too warm, and she struggled to gather herself enough to make choke out a coherent response.

“You'd better go and see to our guest. I don't fancy a repeat of the GR explosion,” her father said, patting her hand. “Just promise me you're being careful, sweetheart.”

“ _Dad_!” Bulma choked out, ripping her hands from his grasp. “I'm a bit old for the talk.”

“Well, I did mean be careful in the Gravity Room, as it seems pretty badly dinged up, but while on the subject I would advise that you take care in that regard too.”

Unable to cope with the conversation any further Bulma rose to her feet with the screeching of her chair legs against tile, trying desperately to swallow back the heat engulfing her face before she had to face the Saiyan prince.

\--------

As was to be expected Vegeta was pacing the room like a caged animal, clad only in his cotton training shorts, when Bulma found herself in the GR. His head snapped to her the moment she stepped foot into the pod, the unpleasant curling of his lip revealing a canine that was just slightly too long and curved to ever be mistaken as human.

“You finally showed up,” he growled out, the sneer deepening. She could almost imagine his long lost tail lashing out behind him like a disgruntled cat's. “It's almost as if you _want_ do die when the androids show up.”

Bulma rolled her eyes. “I do have a life, you know.”

“Yes, I'm aware of that.”

Pressing her mouth into a thin line, Bulma surveyed the room around her. Vegeta's presence was obvious enough in the cracked metal casings and patches of blackened, melted wall dotted around. However the centre console seemed to have taken a rather terrible beating, several fist shaped dents warping the structure, while the casing protecting the circuitry had been removed revealing a headache-inducing tangle of wires.

Repressing the urge to launch into an immediate assault Bulma pinched the bridge of her nose. "So, what's the issue?"

"The blasted thing won't maintain the level of gravity I require. I set it to the correct pressure, but it won't go higher than fifty times Earth's gravity, no matter the input." Vegeta said, kicking out at the console in frustration. "And that's if it maintains that pressure without cutting out completely. It's nowhere near strong enough, it's practically child's play."

"Well you're not exactly helping matters are you, idiot? Break this room and you won't be getting another one," Bulma snapped. Despite her agitation, she couldn't help feeling somewhat amused that fifty times Earth's gravity could be considered weak to _anyone_. “My dad said he came down and took a look at it earlier?”

“Yes, though he was as incompetent as every other human I've stumbled across on this hick planet.”

“Woah, buddy,” Bulma reared up onto the balls of her feet, her cheeks reddening with anger. Her hands went to her tool belt, unfastening it from her waist and letting it fall to the ground with a thunk. “If you're such a smart ass why don't you fix it yourself.”

Vegeta eyed the tools for a moment before dragging his gaze to meet her face. They squared off, tension mounting, before his shoulders sagged and he acquiesced. “Just do what you need to do.”

“Good boy.”

Bulma retrieved her gear and shoved her hair into a baseball cap, trying to ignore the biological need to reach and touch the Saiyan as she passed to crouch in front of the console. She spent a good few minutes prodding and poking around, inspecting the interior for physical damage before facing the laborious task of sifting through coding to check for computer errors. All the while she could feel Vegeta's heavy gaze burning a hole between her shoulders, irises blacker than the deepest depths of space that were inescapable. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, her skin breaking out into goosebumps, and when ten or so minutes had passed with no progress made, Bulma had to accept that she was more than distracted from the task at hand.

Finally having enough Bulma pulled back and turned to face Vegeta. “What the hell is your problem?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your problem. You clearly have one. You've always been an entitled ass but you're acting like a bratty little kid who doesn't want to share his toys.”

“Other than being forced to live on an underdeveloped rock in the shittiest corner of the galaxy, training to save a planet I will likely destroy myself anyway, simply because I was bested by third rate scum? Your inability to produce technology that withstands more than a few days of use.”

“Funny, because I could have sworn that me going on a date had something to do with your bad mood. My mistake.”

Vegeta reeled back as though struck, his expression utterly thunderous. “Your mistake indeed. I don't care what or _who_ you do.”

“Riiiight. 'Cause I'm just here to fix your shit and fuck you?”

“Tch.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought, asshole.”

“How _dare_ you speak to me like that. I am Prince Vegeta, the--”

“--royal heir to the great Saiyan race, greatest warrior of all time, destined Super Saiyan, yada-yada,” Bulma said, cutting him off. “Spare me the spiel, I've heard it all before.”

Suddenly Bulma was no longer stood by the centre console, or even stood on her feet at all. Instead she was pressed against the wall, the large calloused hand around her throat not constricting enough to impact her ability to breathe, but tight enough to hold her in place while her toes barely skimmed the ground. Another hand was planted on her hip, to help ease the pressure around the neck so she wouldn't choke, she assumed. Regardless, Vegeta looked furious, his face only centimetres from her own.

“Do not dare to speak to me in such an offensive manner. I hold the ability to annihilate entire planets with barely the flick of my finger, and you speak to me as though I am lesser than the third rate scum you associate with.”

Logic reasoned that Bulma should have been frightened, with the fingers of a killer curled around her and pinning her in place, voice dripping with fury, but she couldn't summon the fear. Instead, tripping off of the tip of her tongue, came laughter, bitter and soured, but laughter nonetheless.

“Oh _come on_ , you can't still think that your little speeches about class wars and power levels have any effect on me. I don't give a shit. I've _never_ given a shit. You may be crazy strong, probably _the_ strongest person I've ever known, but _I_ am the most powerful woman on this planet. Even if you wanted to kill me, which I know for a fact you don't, you never could. You think I'd let you strut around without counter measures in place? You think I'd let you into my bed without making sure I had a viable escape plan? Come on, Vegeta. I thought you were smarter than that.”

The hand around her throat twitched, and Bulma felt, rather than saw, curve of Vegeta's mouth as his lips parted to form an arrogant smile.

“You're both incredibly brave and incredibly foolish.”

“I know.”

They were blanketed by silence, only the sounds of their breathing daring to spoil it, pressed so closely together that their breath was indistinguishable from one another. Vegeta's anger had begun to dissipate, no longer rolling off of him in waves, and yet his grip on her remained firm. She glanced up to find his eyes dark and needy, devouring her, and Bulma just knew that he felt it too.

It would take no effort at all to just lean forward and kiss him. The format was familiar and well known. They would fight, they would fuck, and they would roll about in post-coital bliss and just forget the world around them.

_But what about Yamcha? What about not getting your heart broken? What about being with someone who actually wants to be with you too?_

_What about salvaging your pride and dignity before it's too late?_

“Hey, let go of me,” Bulma said, her voice quiet and hoarse. “You want the gravity fixed, right? And I have that date, so I'd rather not waste any more time, capiche?”

Making a conscious effort to escape for the first time, Bulma wiggled herself free from Vegeta's grasp; his hold on her giving easily from the moment she put any effort in to do so. She fell the little distance to the floor with a mostly exaggerated _oof_ , her heart sinking along with her body.

Vegeta was refusing to look at her, staring off at the corner of the pod with an annoyed grunt as she made her way back over to the centre console with jellied limbs.

He said nothing when she started tugging wires from their bed, and when she glanced up mid-way through to ask for a tool, he was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter is a little 'empty', it's just build up for the juicer bits. Plus, it was nice to write something that wasn't overly emotionally taxing. I recently underwent not one but TWO pretty major surgeries in a four week period, so I just wanted to give myself a little bit of a break. 
> 
> Speaking of breaks, I really, _really_ hope Super/a replacement show returns after the movie. That ending montage was beautiful, and I want more of _that_. I first started watching Dragon Ball probably 18 or so years ago, and I'm really not ready to say goodbye again (though I suppose I do have the dub to keep me going). 
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://www.myn-sii.tumblr.com/writing) (where I try and regularly post updates about chapters), ρατrϵon (where I post updates 48 hours in advance) and Ko-Fi.


	11. …Try, Try Again

The Italian restaurant, much like the strength of her feelings for Yamcha, fell short in the flesh when compared to her memories of the past.

Yamcha had arrived at Capsule Corp surprisingly promptly, which had almost convinced Bulma that perhaps her misgivings about the date were unfounded, and that things would be plain-sailing from here on out. He was well dressed too, sporting a neat suit that looked brand new, and he'd made a decent effort in terms of his hair.

Her mother and father had greeted him warmly, and Bulma had tried hard to muster some genuine enthusiasm at the prospect of her first proper date in _months_ , but it had fallen flat with the familiar hum of the little spherical ship in her front yard.

Thinking about _him_ would do her no good. Leaving had been the only option.

“Where are you parked?”

Yamcha had cringed, and immediately his hand had went to the back of his head impishly. “Shoot, I flew here. Guess I kind of forgot about you not being able to fly too... if you want I can fly you too, like old times. Just hold on tight.”

“I'm wearing a dress. I'd rather not have the whole of West City see my underwear, thank you.”

Yamcha had laughed, and Bulma had popped a capsulated car, and that had been that. When they'd arrived at the restaurant, Yamcha complaining nearly as much as Goku about his empty stomach, and Bulma's already limited enthusiasm waning, the piss poor food that failed to live up to her perhaps lofty standards had done little to lift her spirits.

“It's crazy how quickly the last year's gone by, huh?” Yamcha asked as he enthusiastically shovelled his beetroot risotto into his mouth. “We're like, over the half way point till those androids arrive.”

Bulma's fingers tensed around the silverware. “Can we maybe, I don't know, talk about something other than the androids?”

“Sorry, I'm killing the mood, right?”

Bulma forced a smile, swirling the tepid zuppa toscana around the bowl with her spoon. She'd remembered a rich and vibrant taste when she and Yamcha had first started dating, but now it was all she could do not to gag when she brought it to her mouth.“No, it's fine. I just here enough about it at home.”

“Oh yeah, I bet,” Yamcha said, ripping apart a bread roll and popping a chunk into his mouth. “Living with Vegeta I bet all you here is 'androids this', 'Super Saiyan that'. I can't imagine anything worse.”

The mention of Vegeta's name was wounding, far more than Bulma had ever expected it to be. As though instead of making an innocent, throwaway comment Yamcha had instead forced shattered glass down her throat and forced her to swallow. It was completely irrational, she knew it, to feel so hopelessly lost and tormented, but nonetheless she felt her world shrink and contract painfully around her at the utterance of _his_ name.

“Let's not talk about him either,” Bulma said, abandoning her dish and stretching her hand over the table to clutch at Yamcha's forearm. “We're on a date, let's talk about date-y stuff.”

Yamcha beamed. Either at the contact, the sudden (albeit forced) enthusiasm for their date, or a combination of the two, it was hard to tell. Regardless, the happy grin that would have once stolen her breath away forced a guilty pull from Bulma's insides.

“I've been meaning to tell you, you look very pretty tonight,” he began, pushing away his now empty plate and dramatically patting his washboard-flat stomach. “You look at least ten years younger.”

Any guilt she may or may not have felt was suddenly caught up in the fire smouldering within Bulma, promptly falling away and reduced to ash. “...Excuse me?”

“Hey, it's a compliment! I'm just saying that you could _totally_ pass for a chick in her early 20's,” Yamcha said, arms raised and voice airy. “Some women start letting themselves go when they get to your age, and it's totally normal when you're getting older. But you're still a total fox.”

Bulma tamped down the desire to stomp her foot and unleash a shrieking string of expletives in Yamcha's direction, but only barely. The fact that he had the audacity to insinuate anything through back-handed compliments sort of explained his penchant for getting his ass kicked, and for the first time in her life Bulma could truly see why people such as Tien and Vegeta may have taken an immediate dislike to Yamcha based on his cocky, flippant attitude.

Even if _most_ of Yamcha's former enemies ended up being among his tightest circle of friends eventually.

She wanted to kick his ass too.

But she was supposed to be on a date. On a date because the man she was sort-of seeing was in fact a genocidal alien prince who had absolutely _no_ intention of settling down with her and formulating a real relationship, even with the threat of a potential apocalypse looming over their heads. And, loathe as she was to admit it, Yamcha was right and Bulma _was_ getting older (though, by no means old, _thank you very much_ ), so if she wanted to bother with the prissy marriage and babies malarkey she had to hurry up and settle down with someone.

And that someone may as well be her childhood sweetheart and on/off lover of over a decade, right?

Even if aforementioned _idiot_ was extremely insensitive and let his big mouth run before thinking.

“C'mon, B, I'm teasing,” Yamcha said quietly, a crease forming between his brows. “You know I've always punched well above my weight when it comes to you, right? You're a total catch. A bonafide hottie with smarts to boot. And a total badass. You're a total catch with the whole package, and I'm just some kid from the desert who was lucky enough to try and steal from the right girl.”

Bulma snorted, and despite herself the smile tugging at her lips was genuine. His little speech only served to remind her that even at his most oafish, nothing Yamcha did or said was ever born in malice. He was a kind man, a good man, the kind of man she'd traverse the cosmos for so that she could have him at her side once more. She owed to to him, as well as herself, to make more than a token effort during this date.

With renewed enthusiasm Bulma squeezed Yamcha's fingers, not even noticing when the waiter stole away with their plates and returned with their next course.

\--------

Bulma's enthusiasm waned alarmingly fast.

The second course had been a greater disaster than the first, having got the order wrong _twice_ before eventually returning with the correct dish, only to find it scorchingly hot on the outside, but cold in the middle. Rather than continuing to wait around Bulma accepted the clearly microwaved meal with a bitter _'thanks'_ and attempted to pick at the goopy mixture plopped in the centre of her plate.

By which time Yamcha had already _finished_ his meal, having not bothered to wait for her (“my food's gonna get cold, babe!”), and was already perusing the dessert menu with gluttonous interest.

Their conversation was stilted and awkward, the number of topics they could talk about that didn't include robots designed to wipe out the entire planet, alien monkey-men (also designed to wipe out the entire planet) who crash landed in glorified gigaballs, or personal experiences with the afterlife being few and far between.

They hadn't been on a date like this, a 'get-to-know-you', honeymoon period outing, in _years_ , and knowing each other as intimately as the did was a colossal drawback. Bulma couldn't ask Yamcha about his family, because they were also _her_ family, the bonds they'd established having run thicker than blood. Yamcha couldn't ask Bulma what she did for a living when he apartment was kitted out in top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art Capsule Corporation tech – most of it not even available to the public yet.

Bulma couldn't help but compare Yamcha to Vegeta, despite her best efforts not to think about him at all.

When talking to the Saiyan, conversation was rarely _this_ awkward. Admittedly most of their conversations consisted of screaming at one another during blazing rows about the technology he habitually dinged up, or moans of one another's names intersected with pants of 'faster', 'harder' and 'good girl', but _still_ , when they did talk it was easy. Free. Vegeta told her what she suspected were highly edited stories of his home planet and the missions he'd gone on under Frieza's command, and Bulma shared anecdotes of her teenaged travels with Goku, Oolong, Puar and Yamcha.

Occasionally Vegeta would offer practical advice when it came to her lab experiments, usually citing lived experience with particular modes of transportation or energy use to help aid her in her work, and Bulma would return that favour by presenting him with new battle suits, chest plates, and bots to test drive so that he could settle on his favourite designs.

Their conversations weren't conventional, but they were easy.

As easy as things had once been between her and Yamcha.

Perhaps, she thought, even easier.

Bulma paid the bill, to her semi-annoyance, given Yamcha didn't even _offer_ despite the date being his idea, and rushed out of the restaurant, quietly vowing not only to never, _ever_ return, but to call in a pizza or Chinese food once she'd gotten home.

The overhead bell jingled as the door swung open, and the burst of fresh air against her skin was a welcome relief. As the door swung shut she felt the tug and heard the tear as her dress tried to follow with it, and the refreshing night air did little to assuage her mounting frustration.

"Shit," Bulma hissed, grabbing at her dress to inspect the damage. "Fuck. Shit, shit, shit."

"What's up?" Yamcha asked, frowning and turning back to face her.

"I ripped my dress on the stupid door."

"So? Just buy another one, it's not like you're short on cash."

"Yamcha, do you know how much this cost?"

He grinned, chucking quietly to himself.

"This isn't funny, you know."

"No, but it just reminds me that you're still the same old Bulma. Always bossing me around and putting me in my place."

“You're an asshole.”

“Yeah, but you love me.”

Forgetting the dress, Bulma's mouth thinned to a heart line as her stomach plummeted to her knees.

\--------

The ride back to Yamcha's apartment was surprisingly... nice.

Unlike their disastrous dinner date, conversation actually flowed freely, with Yamcha recounting a hilarious story about Roshi and his stash of pornography that definitely wouldn't have been suitable to share over a meal in a public setting. Even focusing on the road Bulma found herself having to wipe at her eyes to mop up tears of mirth, occasionally biting a knuckle to contain a belly-laugh.

For the first time all evening, hell, for the first time since Yamcha planted the idea of a reunion in her head, there was not a single thought of Vegeta occupying her mind and clouding her judgement.

It was just her and Yamcha, and the gentle tinkering of their laughter as they drove into the night, like glorified children kicking up sand as they sped through the desert in a brown aero-engined rust bucket.

Which is why, when Yamcha offered her inside for _coffee_ with a suggestive up-quirk of his eyebrow, Bulma said yes.

They quickly dropped the pretence that they were crammed together on Yamcha's sofa for anything less than sex, and their only somewhat awkward make out session on the couch quickly escalated to tumbling into his bedroom and landing in a tangled heap atop his mattress.

Yamcha's left hand found its way to her thigh, squeezing the flesh tenderly, and his right hand slipped to the back of her dress, groping for the zipper. Bulma shivered as he found what he was looking for and tugged down, her back suddenly exposed to a rush of cold air. The dress fell from her shoulders and pooled at her ankles, and she heard Yamcha's breath hitch as his eyes roamed her body. For the first time ever with him, Bulma felt self-conscious, her cheeks beginning to flame. It hadn't been this way before. It wasn't this way with Vegeta.

Well, it had been a nice couple of Vegeta-free hours while it lasted.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," Yamcha whispered, grabbing his shirt by the hem and pulling it over his head. He gently pushed her back, following the movement with his own body, caging her. He was already hard, his erection pressed against her abdomen through his trousers. "I've missed you so much, Bulma. I've missed you so fucking much."

She kissed him with all the passion she could muster, squeezing her eyes shut and allowing her hands to do the talking. His body felt too soft, skin too smooth, and she felt a wave of guilt wash over her when Yamcha moaned into her mouth. They had loved each dearly since childhood, and Yamcha had at one point been everything she wanted and more. The Prince Charming that she had always dreamt of.

Except now there was a real prince, although definitely not a charming one, back at Capsule Corp., and she couldn't shake his presence.

Yamcha's fingers crept up her thigh, a single digit grazed her panties experimentally, and when she didn't react, he slipped under the lace to stroke her. Bulma was painfully aware that she wasn't turned on, and it would only be matter of seconds before he realised it too. Sure enough, after a few minutes of heavy petting with no success, Yamcha retracted his hand, propping himself up with his elbows, his head tilting to one side in confusion.

"What's wrong?" Yamcha asked, an almost child-like quality to his voice. "Did I do something you didn't like?"

Bulma wanted to cry; this wasn't fair on her and it certainly wasn't fair on Yamcha. She wanted to love him again, her life would be so much easier if she could push the last few months to the back of her mind, write them off as a sexual experiment, and settle down with her childhood sweetheart. Yamcha desperately wanted to marry her, start a family of their own, and she had always told him 'one day'. If she could make that day today, if she could make it all click in place the same way it did ten years ago, she'd never have to worry again.

But Vegeta had ruined her, and there was no turning back now.

"I'm sorry, I can't,"

"Bulma, wait," Yamcha grabbed her by her wrist, drawing her back to him. "If this is all going too fast for you, we can slow it down, take all the time you need. You know I'd never hurt you, right? You're the love of my life, I'd wait an eternity for you."

Eyes glossy, Bulma dressed and practically ran to her car. She felt like a monster, teasing Yamcha when she had known full well that she could never give herself to him again.

She pressed her head against the steering wheel finally allowing the tears to flow freely.

\--------

Vegeta cranked the gravity up again, his muscles immediately screaming in protest as they tried to acclimate to the increased pressure.

Though he could never admit it, witnessing the exchange between Bulma and the weakling as he came to collect her for their strange customs of courtship had bruised Vegeta's ego. He was the Prince of all Saiyans, and he had allowed her to share his bed, yet she was wilfully returning to a man who was phenomenally outranked by a _child._ It was bad enough that he was forced to live in someone's spare bedroom, on a planet he'd intended to obliterate only a few years ago, desperately trying to achieve the legendary status that clown Kakarot had reached with ease. And now _this._ It was humiliating, beneath him and the noble blood that pumped through his veins, feeding the storm that gathered and grew within him.

He kicked at one of the drones, shattering it immediately. Another swooped at him, firing a beam at his shoulder that he didn't quite dodge. The skin puckered and blistered, but he barely felt it.

She was with him at this very moment, probably shamelessly throwing herself at him and spitting lewd remarks like the little bitch she was. Really, Earth women - this blue haired harlot in particular - had no sense of decency, their naughty little tongues twisting even the most innocent of conversations into filth.

That piss poor excuse for a warrior was undoubtedly taking advantage of her impressive skill set right now, probably blissfully unaware that he was aiming well beyond his reach. Naive to the treasure beneath his clumsy fingertips. She probably wouldn't even cum tonight. She'd probably be left disappointed, forced to take matters into her own hands.

For some reason _this_ particular thought angered Vegeta more than the thought of the act itself.

Before he could purge himself of the ill-feeling the gravity suddenly decreased, the drones shutting down and falling to the ground with a crescendo of clunks.

"Stupid fucking room! Piece of sh-" Vegeta growled, stopping when he noticed Bulma in the doorway, head down, looking tiny and hopeless. He took a tentative step towards her, not quite believing she was real, half-hoping she wasn't just so he could continue his rampage against the machines she'd created. "What are you doing here, woman?"

Bulma didn't respond, simply lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes were swollen and red, still glossy from the tears she'd evidently been crying, and she tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. Vegeta hated the way she was making him feel, as though his insides were rotting. He'd slaughtered children in front of their screaming mothers with ease, but yet the sight of this human woman sobbing before him left him racked with guilt. He wanted to pull her close and bury her head against his chest, to take whatever pain she was experiencing away from her. The impulse went against every single Saiyan instinct, so he swallowed it down.

"I thought you were on a _date_ with that moron, Yamcha? What are you..." Vegeta trailed off when Bulma winced at the mention of her ex-lovers name. He narrowed his eyes, examining every inch of her with newfound suspicion. She was shaking violently, the dress she was wearing was torn at the hem, her lipstick smeared to one side. She reeked of _him,_ and the scent was infuriating. Nauseating. But there was something else to her, something trembling with her ki. Fear. _Pain._ An image began to form in Vegeta's mind and for a moment he was worried he might actually vomit there and then.

Compared to Vegeta that useless fool was little more than a gnat. Incapable of doing any real damage. But compared to someone as fragile as Bulma...

He was going to gut that spineless coward, and use the entrails to decorate his room. He would torture that fucker for hours, he would--

"Bulma," Vegeta worked hard to keep his voice somewhat level. The use of her name seemed to shock her a little, but he was too preoccupied with the taste of bile rising in the back of his throat. "I need you to answer me. Did he... did Yamcha _hurt_ you? Did he.."

"No," Bulma said hurriedly, her eyes wide with realisation. "He... he wanted to, and we _tried,_ but... I-I couldn't do it. I tried and I just couldn't do it."

Vegeta grabbed her face with his hands, forcing her to look him in the eye. Her skin was hot and flushed, and she leant into the touch. "I need you to say he didn't hurt you. Because I am seconds away from blasting a hole through the roof and decapitating him."

Bulma blushed, and she pushed at Vegeta's chest with one of her hands, silently urging him to back off. He complied, taking several more steps back than she had probably intended, allowing her her freedom. "He didn't hurt me... he stopped when I said no. He's not like that, he's a nice guy, he'd never hurt me."

Vegeta frowned, his arms, tilting his head to one side. He was relieved, but the revelation that she was fine left him incredibly confused. "Then why are you crying?"

"It doesn't matter," she wiped at her face with the back of her hands, and offered him a weak smile. "I'm sorry for interrupting your training, Vegeta."

She turned to leave, and he was at her side in an instant. He grabbed her wrist, careful not to hurt her, and tugged her back inside of the room. "You can't just waltz in here, disturb my workout, and then leave without explaining yourself. Tell me. Now."

Her pulse quickened beneath his fingers, and her reddening cheeks darkened. "I-I don't know what to say. We were...trying to make _it_ work, like we used to. It just felt... wrong. His hands... his mouth, they felt _wrong._ "

Vegeta cringed at the thought of that battle scarred idiot pawing at the woman before him, simultaneously cursing himself f _or caring_. Yet there was a small slither of relief, the knowledge that Bulma was, to a degree, still _his_. "And that's it? So what happened to your dress?"

"What? Oh, that? I just caught it on a door," Bulma said. She swallowed a noticeable lump in her throat, and peaked up at Vegeta through her spiky, water lodged lashes. "Were you really that worried that he'd done something bad to me?"

Vegeta immediately dropped her wrist, stumbling backwards as his cheeks began to flame. "Shut up. There's no honour in violating a woman. It is a reprehensible crime committed by cowards. It could have been anyone and I'd have reacted the same way. You're not special, and neither is that maggot boyfriend of yours."

"Huh, is that so?" Bulma said, tapping her forefinger to her chin, suddenly awash with mischief. "And he's not my boyfriend."

"So your little rendezvous didn't go as planned?" Vegeta felt a pang of guilt when Bulma's face fell again, and he tried to push the feeling aside. Her tears had dried, but her pretty face still bore the remnants of her emotional outburst, and he wanted to know why. He stared at her for a moment, chest heaving from the work out, heart racing from her presence. "Look, I hate this damn human crap, but do you want to talk about it?"

Bulma looked nervous, but she held Vegeta's gaze anyway. She shifted slightly to close the gap between them, and Vegeta was suddenly hyper aware her taunt little body so close to his. Drenched in another man's pungent scent, skin prickling. And still fucking delicious.

"I don't know why I'm crying... I just know that when he was touching me, I knew it would never be good enough and I was ruined." She paused, narrowing her eyes and pointing to his shoulder. "You're hurt."

"It's nothing, woman," Vegeta huffed, struggling to take in the information he'd just received and electing to deflect instead. “I've endured far worse.”

“I know, and I really wish you hadn't,” Bulma said, toying with her fingers nervously. “I made a mistake tonight. I was just mad at you about something stupid. I'm sorry. I don't even know why I'm hear telling you this, so I'm going to go. Just don't kill yourself in here, okay?”

It was as though a switch had been flipped, and Vegeta lost control of himself, pulling her close and kissing her almost aggressively. She hesitated, only for a moment, before she gave herself to him, her tiny hands exploring his flesh, careful to avoid his latest injury.

"Your dress is already beyond repair?" He growled, against her mouth, savouring her ragged breaths.

Bulma nodded in response, and so he took that as all the confirmation he needed. He tore it down the middle, exposing her pale body, eliciting a shudder from her.

"Mine," Vegeta mumbled against the milky flesh of Bulma's thigh. He wanted to erase all evidence of Yamcha from Bulma's body, to reclaim her as his own. His mouth moved to her hip, nipping and kissing as it made its journey, upturning into a smirk whenever his ministrations managed to elicit a mewl or a moan of pleasure.

"Mine," he said again, across her stomach, to the sensitive, ticklish spot just below her rib cage, up across her breasts, to her throat. All the while repeating the same single word over and over. Mine. Mine, mine, mine, _mine._

\--------

It had all been a bit of a blur.

One minute Bulma had been sobbing at the entrance of the Gravity Room, unsure as to what she was going to do, but knowing she needed to quell the mounting pain in her chest. The next she was caged against the wall with Vegeta balls deep inside her.

He'd been worried about her, angry that Yamcha had potentially hurt her.

 _Mine_. That's what he had repeated as he claimed her body.

Her fingers traced the scar on his back, the last remnant of his tail, and she felt his body ripple beneath her touch. Bulma grazed the area again, and to her surprise Vegeta's hips bucked as a thin hiss escaped parted lips. She was aware that the tail was a weak point for Saiyans, incredibly sensitive to the point of it being painful. But it hasn't occurred to her until now that, if stimulated in the right way, all those condensed nerve endings might actually produce something akin to pleasure.

Bulma tested the spot again, and once again he groaned and jerked, his head lolling back instinctively. He was blushing, and Bulma savoured his reaction. She kissed his neck, fingers still delicately ghosting over the remains of his tail, Vegeta's breathing becoming increasingly ragged and his hips rolling beyond his control. She felt as though she finally had the upper hand, had a power over him that made him the defenceless one.

"Stop it," he panted.

"Don't you like it?"

"No I do, that's the problem," Vegeta buried his face in her hair, whispering against her throat. His voice was low and guttural, and he was having a hard time keeping his breathing under control. "I can't, not yet."

Vegeta's admission was strangely humanising, despite him not being human at all, shattering the carefully (self) cultivated image that he was flawless and immune to acts of weakness. It only worked to endear him further to Bulma, something she was aware wasn't necessarily a good or healthy thing, but with his lips pressed to her throat and his hips thrusting against her almost desperately, it was hard to forget that he was more of a monster than a man.

“I think I love you.”

The words slipped out before she could even contain them, it just felt too good, too right. The first time she'd ever uttered them. Certainly the first time Vegeta had ever heard them thrown his way.

He didn't say anything, but the hand cupping her ass tightened its grip and Vegeta's lips left her neck to capture Bulma's own.

\--------

Yamcha clamped his hand over his mouth, struggling to hold back a wail and keep in his meal in tact and in his stomach.

He hadn't expected the date to run smoothly, in fact he'd anticipated Bulma's usual string of snarky comments and temper tantrums, and they hadn't come he'd been pleasantly surprised. So when she'd rushed out of his apartment on the verge of tears, he'd been rightfully confused and worried.

Puar had encouraged him to chase after her, Yamcha worrying that she may need her own space, time to cool down, while the little shape-shifter insisted that this wasn't like one of Bulma's angry outbursts and there was _clearly_ something wrong.

So he followed her to Capsule Corp. The almost non-existent blip of her ki indicating she was holed up in the Gravity Chamber, likely giving in to one of the many demands made by that arrogant asshole, before falling off of the map.

He had sensed Vegeta's colossal power level rhythmically spiking and waning, then, huge bursts that reeked of destruction that either overshadowed Bulma's or obliterated it.

He hand't felt her _leave_ the Gravity Chamber, and Yamcha's blood ran cold.

At first he'd feared the worst. Harbouring a literal destroyer of words hadn't been Bulma's smartest move, and it would only take a second for him to lose his temper and kill her. Yamcha was struck by the image of Bulma and her entire family, necks snapped, bent and broken in their own home. A devilish Vegeta cackling over the chaos.

After all, he'd gotten what he'd wanted out of Bulma; free room and board, lavish meals fit for the king he would have been, had lizard space emperors not interfered with destiny, a place to train, and the most prolific minds in the world working on combat gear for him. Yamcha was sure that these things were the only thing preventing Vegeta from going on a killing spree and bathing in the blood of the inhabitants of West City.

If Vegeta ha'd somehow managed to become Super Saiyan, if Bulma suddenly stopped being useful, what was to stop him from just taking her out?

Even knowing that Vegeta could easily kill him, and there would be very little he could do to prevent that fact, Yamcha had decided he had to do _something,_ and barrelled towards the Gravity Room.

He hadn't prepared himself for the spectacle playing out before him, worse that any bloody, violent crime that his imagination was able to muster. The very image that was now burned in his retinas, weighing hot and heavy in his gut.

Bulma and Vegeta.

_Together._

They hadn't noticed him. They were both moaning softly, clearly trying to avoid detection. Vegeta had her pinned against the wall, one hand supporting their weight, the other cupping her bottom as he thrust against her. Her dress was torn clean in two down the middle, and as usual Vegeta was shirtless, his back covered in fresh bruises. The pair of cotton shorts he wore to train were slung low on his hips, two familiar, creamy legs wrapped around his waist. She was whispering something while Vegeta's head was buried in the crook of Bulma's neck, face obscured by her bright blue hair, and when he raised it to kiss her passionately, Yamcha felt as though he was going to pass out.

Somehow it made it worse.

Yamcha could just about handle them fucking, even if he didn't understand it. Sex was primal and instinctual and just a way of scratching an itch.

But kissing was personal, intimate.

The fact that _Vegeta_ \- cruel, cold, and calculating Vegeta - was the one to initiate it, crushing his snarling mouth to hers, served as just another punch in the gut.

Yamcha wanted to look away, wanted to claw his own goddamn eyes out just to end his torment, but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't avert his gaze.

It was a perverse, horrifying nightmare that he was unable to wake up from.

Staggering to prevent himself from falling to his knees, Yamcha tried to process what he'd just seen.

He wasn't aware that he'd blasted off, probably alerting at least the Saiyan to his presence in the process, until he was touching down in the very same desert where he and Bulma had met as children.

Clutching his hair in his hands, Yamcha let out a long, lonely howl into the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between chapters, I've been dealing with some pretty complicated health issues (which I explain better[ here](http://myn-sii.tumblr.com/post/172621485341/test-results-so-ive-just-received-the-results-of)) and it's been eating up my free time. 
> 
> Thank you for all the wonderful feedback, fan art and messages of support. I cherish every single comment.


	12. Open Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yamcha, Bulma and Vegeta all contemplate their changing relationship status.

Yamcha watched as the wind whipped sand into dozens of tiny, swirling tornados. Now and again he'd summon small, almost inconsequential balls of ki and direct them at the dancing formations, finding a small grain of satisfaction in the way they almost immediately fell apart and died.

It took his mind off of the fact that she hadn't even tried reaching out to him.

Well, maybe she had, the desert had admittedly bad service, even with the best technology Capsule Corp. had to offer at his disposal, but her perceived silence was perhaps more wounding than the betrayal itself. Well, maybe not _worse_ , the image of Bulma and Vegeta wrapped up in each others bodies was branded onto the undersides of his eyelids, a scar far worse than any other. But almost as bad.

She really didn't love him.

Yamcha had fled to his old haunt on instinct, only bothering to return to his apartment for the sake of his gi and base supplies. He'd told Puar to head to Kame House, should Yamcha's absence prove to be too much, but not to worry about him, and the little shapeshifter had wrung its paws together with mounting concern but let him go nonetheless.

Staying in the same city as her, as _them,_ felt like torture, and he just had to get away.

It had been at least fifteen years since he'd been home. Understandably, his old hide-away was dilapidated, although it was hardly in good (or even acceptable) condition anyway, but nonetheless it brought back a strange feeling of warmth and serenity that he hadn't truly felt in months, no, _years._ The last time he'd felt so safe had been in the days leading up to Goku's death, deep into the peaceful slumbering of the world; when the stakes were much lower and he hadn't experienced what it was like to have his ribs cracked by the tightening limbs around his torso, and the electric burn of his organs giving out under the strain of an explosive burst of energy.

That was the last time he truly felt like he _had_ Bulma. As though they were a real unit with the potential to blossom into the quaint little picture-book family he had never had. And they were, technically, on a break at the time. Even if the spat seemed so inconsequential now.

Having died without resolution or closure, and having been brought back after one of his murderers had already proven themselves to be a valuable off-world ally and houseguest, Yamcha had fallen into limbo. As had his relationship with Bulma. It was clear she'd missed him, had cried terribly for days as she clutched at him and sobbed his name against his neck under the cover of night, but that didn't stop things being... _off_ between them.

Try as they might to slot back together, they were simply too changed. Bulma had gone on a literal life-or-death intergalactic adventure, and Yamcha had spent several months training with a literal deity in the afterlife. They had grown, separately and apart.

The arrival of the young, mysterious Saiyan from the future had only widened the gulf between them, with Bulma rejecting his advances to settled down, and the threat of annihilation looming above them at all times hardly creating a romantic atmosphere.

Then there'd been _Vegeta_.

That smug, intolerable little troll walking around the compound, making himself at home. Spouting demands at Bulma and her parents as though his empty title suddenly held any worth again after decades of impotency. It made spending any time at Capsule Corp., any time with _Bulma,_ awkward and insufferable, Yamcha unable to take the constant digs about his strength (or apparent lack thereof) and uselessness, nor the doe-eyed way Bulma would look at the Saiyan whenever he injured himself in his ridiculous pursuit of power.

The Gravity Chamber explosion had been a tipping point, something that had only served to push Yamcha further away, but he'd never expected things to go this far. Not when he was still so painfully in love with Bulma. Not when he'd just assumed that Bulma was still in love with him too.

He'd suspected back then, given the way Bulma had rushed to Vegeta's aid without a single care for her own safety, and her refusal to sleep anywhere but by Vegeta's side as he recovered, that his girlfriend was nursing some sort of crush on the alien. It had stung, but he got it. It wasn't something that worried him, even if it did frustrate him no end.

Their relationship was tumultuous, and he was used to Bulma's wandering eye, especially in the way of those trying to do them harm in some regard, but he had trusted her emphatically. She'd never taken things beyond the confines of innocence, flirting that sometimes saved their lives and sometimes got them into even more trouble. She had never actually strayed, and it's not like Yamcha's own record was sparkling, so he'd made it work. Confident in the fact that whatever lust Bulma may or may not have been harbouring for Vegeta was purely physical and would dissipate with time. Trusting that she'd remain faithful to him.

Now Yamcha wasn't so sure.

Whatever it was between them, whatever Bulma and Vegeta were doing, had been going on for a while. The level of intimacy that he'd witnessed between the two of them was far too established, too deep, to merely be a case of two pent-up adults fucking for a release. Too passionate and deliberate to be the clumsy awakening of lust. The way they'd touched, the way they'd kissed... it was well practiced, personal.

Which begged the question: had they been sleeping with each other behind Yamcha's back when he and Bulma were still together?

The thought alone made Yamcha feel sick, and his knees buckled under the weight of it. Had they mocked him? Had Bulma snuck off to Vegeta's room after a session with Yamcha to compare notes and laugh at his short comings? Is that why the Saiyan seemed to hate him more than any of the other humans? Because the were love rivals, and Yamcha hadn't even noticed?

Because he'd been too damn fucking stupid to realise that the only woman he had ever loved was getting hot and heavy with a homeless, genocidal freak who could _still_ offer her more than Yamcha ever could?

In the near distance a rock formation shattered, spraying sand and fragmented stone high into the sky. Vultures squawked and shrieked in fear, several black-tailed jackrabbits scattered from their hiding spot and made for cover. The explosion took Yamcha by surprise, pulling him out of his head and cementing him in the present.

It wasn't until his laboured breathing began to calm, and his palms began to cool, that Yamcha realised _he_ was the one who'd caused it.

\--------

Bulma awoke in a tangle of sheets and limbs, her naked body sprawled across another that was running far too hot to ever be mistaken for human. She peaked up from beneath her lashes, and found Vegeta still sleeping peacefully, his features softened in a state of repose, and hair wild. He looked younger without his signature scowl in place, years younger than his actual age, his lips parted ever-so-slightly and brows relaxed. Had she not known any better she'd have placed him in his mid twenties at _most_ (Bulma silently thanked the Gods for her own youthful genes, inherited from her age-defying mother) and she couldn't help but wonder whether the perma-glare was a conscious effort on his part to try and look older and scarier. He had, after all, been little more than a child when the weight of the destruction of his people was placed heavily on his shoulders.

Vegeta was, unfortunately, an incredibly light sleeper, though Bulma deduced that was probably a good thing when living with a tyrant who could send his men to kill you at any moment. In fact, she was surprised he hadn't already awoken, disturbed by the change in her breathing. His eyes usually snapped open the moment she roused, darting about the room before alighting on her with a fraction of relief glittering amongst ebony depths.

She drank in his ever-changing body in the pale morning light, his rich, tan skin a scrapbook of scars and battle wounds. Excluding his face, there wasn't a single inch of him that didn't possess a scar of some kind, ranging from pale, thin scratches to angry, ropey whelps. He wore them with pride, and it made Bulma feel a bit sick to think about how badly his body had been abused in his short life. The newest scar - the puncture wound above his heart courtesy of Lord Frieza - was her least favourite; still red and raised, as though refusing to heal. Refusing to forget.

She had, thankfully, been absent from the front line during her stay on Namek, but Krillin had dutifully filled her in on the details, imparting them as if they were just juicy tidbits of gossip and not the ins-and-outs of a man losing his life. Even before the ignition of their "affair", the image of Vegeta, sobbing and broken, begging Goku to end the reign of suffering Frieza had subjected him to, to avenge a little boy who had lost his father and his freedom in one cruel swoop, had a profound effect on her, and she had cried herself to sleep the night Krillin told her. The puckered wound only served to remind her that he had _died_ fighting alongside her friends, and the man they had brought back was not the bloodthirsty prince who had first landed on Earth.

Still, her curious, ever-active mind wanted to know more about his other war wounds, but for the most part Bulma didn't ask questions about the suffering inflicted upon him. It didn't feel _right_ to demand his personal history, even with their _closeness._ Whenever the opportunity presented itself she would ravish his body, dragging her talented tongue across blemishes to elicit a moan of pleasure from the warrior, much to her delight. Sometimes this would be enough for him to divulge details without prompting, other times he'd simply yank her up towards his face and crush his mouth to hers with a ferocity she didn't quite understand.

He'd been kissing her like that a lot lately.

Ever since she came home from her disastrous date with Yamcha. Ever since she'd told him she might love him.

Neither of them had brought up that particular line of dialogue in the five days that had passed.

Which was both a blessing and a curse.

On the one hand it gave her time to puzzle out how she actually felt. She'd only ever loved one man before him, and her feelings for Vegeta and Yamcha were as different as a supernova from the moon. Both were important and beautiful in their own way, but undeniably contributory, making any basis of comparison extremely difficult. To say that she could possibly love Vegeta in the same way that she had loved Yamcha would to an injustice to both men, and whatever it was that was smouldering away within her heart for Vegeta was completely new and unlike anything she'd ever experienced before.

On the other hand, it also gave her reason to doubt herself; oppressed by the enormous burden of guilt that came with ditching her childhood sweetheart for an illicit romp with a literal monster, and crippling insecurities about having uttered the 'L Word' at all. Vegeta hadn't verbally returned the sentiment, and honestly she'd never expected him to, even if the words had just sort of tumbled out of her mouth without any conscious thought behind them.

Still, something had changed between them, their dynamic shifted wordlessly towards something different, almost too good to be true, and Bulma couldn't help but agonise over the endless possible ways things could go wrong.

And, loathe as she was to admit how heavily she relied on him returning her maybe feelings, the thought of Vegeta not loving her in return broke her heart.

But he had called her _his_. And that had to mean something. Right?

The Saiyan shifted in his sleep, racing towards consciousness and a gruelling day holed up in a 400G sweatbox, and Bulma kissed goodbye to the quiet moment that he'd unknowingly shared with her amongst the confused storm of feelings raging within her soul.

“Mornin',” Bulma said cheerily, brushing a thumb along Vegeta's cheekbone to help him along.

He sat up, wiping a hand across his face before blinking back at her, alarmingly bright eyed and wide awake. Bulma wasn't sure if that was a Saiyan thing, or just a Vegeta thing. “Tch.”

“Sleep okay?”

Vegeta snorted, though a small smile warped the corner of his lips upwards. “With the exception of the squirming human sprawled across me and wriggling like an Arlian larvae.”

“Har, har. Very funny. Asshole.”

“Shrill harpy.”

“Stuck up dick.”

“Bitch.”

They stared at one another for a while before Vegeta finally conceded, looking away with a wry grin that Bulma was sure belonged solely to her. She contemplated making some sort of move, extending the morning with a bout of languid sex to help compensate for tumbling mess that was her love life, and to help her procrastinate in her duties for the day. But, just as her fingers followed the knot of muscles on his thigh upwards Vegeta's stomach rumbled, and she knew that her window of opportunity had shrank considerably.

"I can make pancakes, if you'd like?" Bulma paused. The pantry was looking a little thin, depleting much quicker than usual thanks to the Saiyans almost impossibly high metabolism and consequential hunger. She had been planning on doing a food run soon, or at the very least sending one of her employees out with an extensive grocery list, but with her conflicting feelings and fleeting interest in her ex, it had slipped her mind. "The only problem is... we don't have anything to go with it. We're out of fruit, and I think dad ate the last of the bacon yesterday."

He huffed in apparent frustration, but when Vegeta spoke his tone was light, almost playful. "Woman, I have been forced to eat the raw flesh of my enemies to prevent myself from starving. I am sure I can stomach pancakes without toppings or accompaniments."

“Are you sure? Because you're a pain in the ass when you're hungry. Well, an even bigger pain in the ass.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“No.”

His calloused hand cupped her face gently, pulling it towards his own so he could plant a tender kiss on her lips. A little thrill ran down Bulma's spine, savouring the unexpected display of affection. She relished in the touch, and she could feel the vibrations of Vegeta's deep, throaty chuckle as she squirmed involuntarily.

"What was that for?" Bulma asked coquettishly, shuffling closer to press her nude body against his own. One of Vegeta's hands traveled to the small of her back, holding her close to him for a moment before relaxing his grip. Her lips found his neck, following her pulse with a trail of delicate kisses. The hand on her back twitched, calloused fingers leaving fire in their wake. It almost felt as though they were a real couple, almost as though they were a normal guy and a normal girl, and --

She felt Vegeta tense up, and his hand wandered to her hips, gently separating the two of them.

The frown was back, the wall he built around himself fully erect and once again impenetrable. His dark eyes regarded her coldly for a moment, before softening infinitesimally. Vegeta untangled himself from the sheets, pressing his mouth against her throat one final time in a gesture that was more of a bite than a kiss, before abandoning the bed to pull on a pair of sweatpants.

"Woman, I have a lot of training to do. I'm going to shower. Have my food waiting for me upon me return.”

Bulma wavered, considered throwing a tantrum in response to his demands, but by the time she'd worked out the exact way to tear him down, he was already gone and she was left with only the sound of running water emanating from the other room to keep her company.

\--------

Vegeta let the cold water run over his body, trying to rid himself of all traces of _her_. He had _kissed_ her, just because he _wanted_ to. She had been sitting there, drowsy eyed and messy haired, babbling about food, and he'd just kissed her. It was embarrassing for him to admit, but the vulgar little bitch had an enormous affect on him, and lately he had found himself counting down the minutes until his training was complete just so he could ravish that gorgeous body of hers.

The overwhelming desire to stay close to her had been particularly potent since her recent dalliance with former mate.

He was never one for sex, at least prior to his landing on Earth. Vegeta had certainly had the urge before, and when desires arose he'd always found something or someone to satisfy him and satiate his hunger, but it was never a craving. He'd preferred to fight; the thrill of the battle field giving him the same high, and from what he knew of his race, this was pretty common. Of course, he was only a boy when rat bastard Frieza obliterated planet Vegeta, so his knowledge in that area was hazy at best, but he'd been a smart child. Advanced. Breeding felt like a necessitated chore at best for his kind, and to his knowledge only a few Saiyans - the royal bloodline included - paired off indefinitely for pleasure, but even then the bonds between them were weak.

After all, why fuck when you could fight?

Throughout his troubled childhood he'd been surrounded by the whores and concubines of Frieza's men, and neither he nor Raditz paid them much attention. Only Nappa seemed to show any real interest in sex beyond reproductive purposes and the occasional release, but Vegeta had often theorised that being much older than the others, his fighting instincts were beginning to wane, and a new obsession was taking form. So when Nappa would drag Vegeta and Raditz to various brothels and whorehouses, the younger warriors would preoccupy themselves (usually by slaughtering a village or two) whilst Nappa got his fix. Occasionally Raditz would join Nappa, especially after the former had hit puberty, leaving Vegeta to his own devices.

Even when desire burned deep in his belly, Vegeta has had no interest in using prostitutes to facilitate his pleasure. He was _Prince Vegeta, Lord and ruler of all Saiyans._ He had scores of women fawning after him, even if he didn't always welcome their advances.

Then he'd found himself stranded on this god forsaken planet, with some amorous little blue haired heiress offering up her home and body to him. He'd been responsible for the death of her boyfriend, and yet she shamelessly offered herself to him at every opportunity, getting a kick out of Vegeta's disgust and Yamcha's bitter jealousy.

He'd caught Bulma staring at him, hungrily observing him as he trained or bandaged his wounds. At first it had angered him, fury melting into confusion, confusion ultimately giving way to understanding, and understanding into reciprocation. She infuriated him with her smart mouth and he'd spent months fending off her lewd innuendos, but he couldn't help but admire her pert little rump and the perfect hourglass of her body. Like her or loathe her, she was unquestionably attractive, perhaps the most desirable woman he had come across, so when she finally tossed aside her lover he'd decided to take full advantage of the situation and blow off some steam.

But now he was kissing her, without any interest in intercourse, and that just wouldn't do.

He was becoming quite fond of her and it troubled him. He had wanted to stay in that bed all day, lost in a blizzard of lazy, drawn out kisses and ardent lovemaking, and as soon as the thought crossed his mind he knew he had to crush it. So he'd pushed her away, pushed the injudicious notion away, and rushed himself to the bathroom to try and make sense of his thoughts. He was still yet to ascend to the legendary status of Super Saiyan, and every day that passed marked another day closer to the androids invasion, and another day he had failed to equal that lowly clown. He didn't have time to waste, certainly not on that woman, and he fact that he had even entertained such a foolish idea was maddening. The stifling shit-hole of a planet was beginning to have an effect on him, and more often than not he found himself succumbing to human cravings against his will.

She had told him that she loved him.

No one had ever told him that before, to his knowledge. Perhaps his mother had uttered such foolish sentiments when he was infant. Maybe his father had satiated him with something similar, but if his parents had told him that they'd loved him, the memories were long forgotten, and lost in a barrage of sooty lungs and blistered skin.

Vegeta had no concept of love, at least not in practice, no idea how he was supposed to react, if he was supposed to react at all.

While her declaration was unexpected and disarming, it wasn't entirely unpleasant. It felt like a power trip, a secret advantage that Vegeta now had over... well, he wasn't exactly sure who. The weakling had always been below him, in both power and status, as were the other Earthlings. The Namekian he held a tiny glimmer of respect for, but still he ranked far lower than Vegeta, and so an additional advantage was totally unnecessary.

So, perhaps it was Kakarot. Yet, still, while that third class clown had somehow undeservedly leapt ahead to the Legendary, he was still merely low ranking grunt and there was absolutely no reason why Vegeta should ever, _ever_ feel lesser than _him._

Right?

Regardless of the reasoning behind it, Bulma's confession sparked the same sort of almost giddy ... _hope_ that he'd experienced on Namek when he'd got his hands on the Dragon Balls, or when he'd prematurely, and retrospectively foolishly, thought he'd attained the legendary rank of Super Saiyan.

Vegeta was still waiting for the fall. For the white cold shrinking of his veins when his advantage was lost. The sickening swell of failure that came with the Ginyu's snatching the wishing orbs away, or he realised that his pathetic clutching at an ancient prophecy was unfounded, and he was left to die in rubble and ruin.

He would kill her before he allowed her to bring about such a weakness once again.

Probably.

Maybe.

Though it didn't really matter, he could never return her feelings, and that was a safety net that protected him against an otherwise weak and feeble creature. He was incapable of such weaknesses, of forging such trivial, pathetic attachments that only the third class and less evolved species still clung to as if they offered any sort of long-term reward.

Vegeta shook his head beneath the spray of water, his hair flattened to his skull and skin hot and pink.

He would train extra hard today, he decided. Today would be the day that he'd finally cross that threshold that would take him beyond the elite and into godhood. His hair would burn brighter than the sun and his body would explode with the pent up power of the entire royal lineage. He would succeed where generations before him had failed, and with the one fell swoop he would save his temporary, surrogate planet just as his father should have saved Planet Vegeta.

He would do it for himself. For the honour of the kills he would commit in this new form. For the pride of his fallen race. For the satisfied rush of adrenaline that would sweep him up and wash away nearly three decades of suffering when he finally bested Kakarot and proved himself to be the most powerful creature in the entire universe.

He would do it simply because he _could_.

The erratic skip of his heart whenever he thought about her rushed, impassioned admission meant absolutely nothing. And the increased urgency and need to ascend when he thought of those lips drawing their final breath was entirely coincidental.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's such a short chapter, but I just really wanted to write the three of them lamenting on this new found splurge of feelings (both positive and negative) before things kicked up a notch and we get to thick of it. I really, _really_ enjoy writing Yamcha (that being said, he is one of my favourite characters and the DB era Goku/Bulma/Yamcha/Oolong dynamic is one of my favourite friendship groups in _any_ media). 
> 
> \---
> 
> //Self plug// Feel free to check out my fic 'City of Stars', a vegebul actress/gangster AU that I love writing more than I should probably admit.


	13. Ending

Yamcha’s knuckles hovered, trembling slightly as he deliberated whether or not he actually wanted to go through with the afternoon of torture that would undoubtedly unfold if he were to summon up the courage to knock.

He could leave now and never look back.

He could grab Puar and maybe hang out in the mountains with Tien and Chiaotzu for the foreseeable future, and maybe he wouldn’t even bother turning up to fight the androids. If a couple of Saiyans, super or not, couldn’t handle a pair of murderous tin cans, he sure as hell wouldn’t be up to task. Goku would either take out the threat, as he always did, or they’d all be doomed. Either way, neither option required his presence, and he’d be able to hide away until the pain subsided.

He’d never have to see Bulma again.

Maybe, if things turned to shit, he’d even be lucky enough to ride out the worst of it. Maybe he’d be safe enough in the desert; the androids would be too preoccupied with the big cities and hordes of screaming humans available to torment, and he’d grow old and die a coward’s death, robbing the occasional unlucky passer-by and hunting for scraps.

Except he really didn’t want to go back to that life again. Not after tasting something better. Not after knowing _he_ could be better.

Which meant that, if he wanted to be clear and level headed during the upcoming battle, he’d have to resolve things and just knock the damn door.

“Why hello dear, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around here!”

Yamcha startled at the voice, whipping around defensively, only to let out a small, somewhat embarrassed, sigh of relief when faced with Bulma’s harmless mother, watering can in hand

“Hey Panchy, you scared the life out of me,” Yamcha clutched his hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture, feigning an elongated huff of fright. “You’re going to have to give me a minute to calm down.”

The blonde woman smiled kindly in return, using her free hand to wave him away as she had done so many times before throughout the years he’d known her. “Are you looking for Bulma, dear? She’s probably in the lab with her father. Though she was com plaining that she didn’t feel well, so it might be worth checking the living room first.”

Uncertainty seized him once more, and Yamcha found himself reluctant to follow Panchy’s directions and seek his former girlfriend out. He knew that regardless of the outcome he’d be in for some sort of heartache, and as much as he desired an explanation, knowing that she was so close – that _he_ was so close – felt too much.

“If she’s sick I’ll drop by some other time,” Yamcha said, retreating from the door and attempting to manoeuvre passed Panchy as she tended to her magnolias. “Sorry to have intruded, Mrs. B.”

Before Yamcha could make his swift getaway and blast off into the sky, he felt a hand grip his elbow, steering him back towards the door he’d just spent the better half thirty minutes agonising in front of. “Oh don’t be silly, it’s no trouble,” Panchy insisted, abandoning her gardening. “Besides, I do love having handsome young men roaming about the place, and that Vegeta is always training or quarrelling with my Bulma, so I never get to see him.”

Yamcha flinched at the mention of the Saiyan’s name, bile surging upwards and into his throat and it was all he could do to reign back his disgust and save face in front of his (former) future mother-in-law. “Handsome is not exactly the word I’d use to describe Vegeta. ‘Jerk’ suits him a lot better.”

“Oh, you boys and your little rivalries,” Panchy tittered, steering Yamcha into the house. “Let me fix you up a snack and something to drink. You need to keep your strength up too if you’re going to keep those big, strong muscles.”

Yamcha said nothing as he was pulled through the hallways of Capsule Corp., a labyrinth he once called his home and could navigate by memory. Now Vegeta’s presence was everywhere, even if the shadows were feint. White boot polish left abandoned on a side table. A laundry basket of nothing but gym shorts and skin tight tank tops. A huge shopping list, far beyond what was normal for three adults, pinned to a hallway notice board. And, of course, the ever-present, stifling ki that radiated and swelled from within the Gravity Chamber.

Panchy insisted on filling him on all the internal goings-on that he’d missed; chattering inanely about company politics, garden parties that she’d attended, and the mysterious stomach bug that had apparently turned Bulma into an irritable mess in recent days. Panchy insisted it was due to all the coffee she’d been scarfing to make up for the night’s she’d been losing lately by holing herself up in the lab, but Yamcha wasn’t so sure that it was her scientific exploits that had been keeping Bulma awake.

If Panchy knew of the looming threat, she didn’t act like it. Her tone never dipped below light and cheerful, and Yamcha considered the fact that it would be impossible for her to know, because, surely, if she was aware of the very real risk of extinction that was hurtling their way at frightening speeds, she couldn’t be so light and happy.

“Here we are!” She finally said, nudging him into the main living quarters. Just as Panchy had predicted, Bulma was sat on one of the sofas, her legs curled under her while she scribbled into a notebook. She glanced up and looked genuinely surprised upon noticing Yamcha, shoving the book to one side and sitting up a little straighter.

“Um, hi. You didn’t say you were coming over,” Bulma began, her tone almost cautious, as though she was internally trying to process how she would proceed. “Is everything…okay?”

Yamcha cleared his throat, hoping that his body didn’t betray his anxiety somehow, and that his voice remained level and steady. “It was sort of a spur of the moment thing.”

“Huh,” Bulma considered this for a second, before turning her attention towards her mother. “Mom, could you maybe leave Yamcha and I to talk alone?”

“Of course, honey. I’ll go fix you some snacks.”

“Thanks.”

With a final endearing parting pat on the arm, Bulma’s mother busied away towards the kitchen, humming quietly to herself. Both Bulma and Yamcha watched her disappear down the hallway, and it was only when they could no longer see or hear her, did they finally turn to face one another.

True to Panchy’s word, Bulma did seem to be somewhat sick. She looked a little pale and tired, and the bowl of strawberries sat on the coffee table in front of her remained untouched. Yamcha considered using this as an excuse to leave, wishing he really had just left while he’d had the chance. But he hadn’t, and now he was stuck in his ex-girlfriend’s living room.

Willing for one of them to speak.

“About our date,” Bulma began, gnawing her lip and nervously lacing her fingers together. “I’m sorry I just ran off like that. And I’m sorry I haven’t tried to reach out to you these last few weeks. Things have been… well, it’s been pretty hectic around here. You know how it is.”

Yamcha felt his blood run cold, his jaw clenching involuntarily. “Oh, I know how it is.”

Bulma offered him a half-hearted smile, patting the space beside her on the sofa in an invitation for him to sit. Mechanically Yamcha followed her instructions, lowering himself down with his hands balled into fists at his side. He could feel his frustrations mounting, but worked hard to focus on the rise and fall of his chest to save himself from screaming at her.

“So,” Bulma said, picking up a strawberry before deciding against it will a wrinkle of her nose, and putting it back down again. “I take it that’s why you’re here.”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t a lie, he had come to discuss their date, as pitiful and poorly executed as it had ended up being. More than that, he’d wanted an explanation as to how and why she’d juggled two men, particularly two men who loathed each other and had actively tried to murder one another not so long ago, on the same night.

“Like I said, I really am sorry,” Bulma said quietly. “My head hasn’t exactly been in the right place, and… I know I owe you an explanation. A big one. It wasn’t fair of me to just run out on you like that and leave you hanging for so long.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Yamcha agreed.

He needed to hear the words come from her own mouth. Needed to hear Bulma tell him that she was having an affair with a monster, needed to hear her admit that she’d toyed with him, knowing Vegeta was waiting for her at home. 

“Things have been… difficult and complicated since we broke up,” Bulma paused to pick at the skin surrounding her thumbnail until it bled. “It’s not easy knowing that the fate of the world rests entirely on the shoulders of like… eight people, and at least four and a half of those people are aliens who could decide they don’t want to save earth anymore and up and leave. We’re literally on borrowed time, and we _know_ we all die in the future so…it’s intense. I thought… I thought maybe if we… went back to how things were, maybe it wouldn’t be so scary. Maybe I could pretend we were sixteen again and our biggest issue was making sure _we_ got the Dragon Balls first and… well, it didn’t work out that way. It felt like I was using you and that’s not fair. So I left, and then I got embarrassed about leaving, because I really _do_ love you, you mean the world to me, and I couldn’t bring myself to face you.”

Yamcha couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, and the bubble of hysterical laughter that clogged his throat electrified his senses to the point of pained overstimulation. She wasn’t going to tell him the truth, the realisation of this fact was scalding. Yamcha had endured a myriad of agonies over the duration of his life, but Bulma lying to his face, the woman he’d loved since he was a shitty little kid with no perspective on the world and its hardships lying to him, was a pain unlike any other he’d faced so far.

Well, with the exception of knowing that she had moved on with one of the most evil creatures in the known universe.

“So, it has nothing to do with the fact you’re having sex with Vegeta?” Yamcha asked darkly, forcing himself to look Bulma directly in the eye. She flinched, her mouth falling open before snapping closed once more, throat bobbing with words left unspoken.

He’d never seen Bulma look so out of control before. Even in the most dire of situations in the past, she’d always maintained an underlying semblance of authoritative collectedness, as though nothing could truly sway the unconquerable Bulma Briefs. But now she looked lost, worried, as though she her brain just couldn’t work fast enough to get her out of this.

“You know,” she choked out, her bottom lip trembling.

“I do.”

“H-how?

“I was worried about you, so I flew to your house to check up on you. I saw him fucking you in the Gravity Chamber,” Yamcha’s lip curled up in disgust. “You weren’t even going to tell me, were you?”

Bulma licked her lips, her breathing growing heavier. If she’d looked sick before, she looked positively dreadful now, her skin adopting a greenish hue and her eyes growing red-rimmed. “I-I didn’t really see the point because there’s not really anything to tell. It’s not like we’re going to get married and have babies, I… I couldn’t tell you… or anyone, because it’s not a long term thing. It would have been needless to announce to all of our friends that I occasionally have sex with Vegeta.”

“I’m not saying you should have told everyone, but don’t I deserve to know the truth, dammit? Or do you just like hurting me?” Yamcha just wanted her to understand, to have a glimpse of the agony he’d endured every moment of every day since he’d stumbled across _them._ It didn’t feel like a huge ask.

“Yamcha, I…”

“Fourteen years, Bulma. We were together for fourteen years, and you don’t even respect me enough to be honest with me.”

“It’s not that, I didn’t want to hurt you! Like I said, what Vegeta and I have it’s…” Bulma trailed off with a wince. “It’s just sex. I didn’t want to hurt you by making you think that I’d already moved on.”

“Kami, Bulma. I don’t give a shit if you move on, it’s who you’re moving on with!” Yamcha was aware of the rising volume of his voice, aware that his ki was pulsating in distress, aware that those two things could draw the Briefs’ or Vegeta towards him at any moment, but he couldn’t control himself. “If it’s just sex then why choose him? You could start sleeping with Krillin or Tien or even Yajirobe and I would be okay with it! Hell, if you told me that Goku was leaving Chi Chi for you I’d find a way to deal. But you decided, in your infinite wisdom, to sleep with an intergalactic terrorist.” 

Part of him wanted to storm out of the room and tell all to spite Vegeta, knowing that the Saiyan's beloved pride would prevent him from openly admitting he had been fucking a simple _human_ girl.

But the other part of him, the aching half that loved Bulma more than he had ever thought himself capable of loving anything, couldn't bring himself to publicly humiliate her. The others wouldn't understand, fuck _he_ didn't understand, and it would be her that paid the price. She ran the risk of being ostracised or mocked, Tien and Piccolo never trusting or forgiving Vegeta, everyone else remaining rightfully wary. She would be all alone, and Vegeta would fly away and abandon her.

"I _died_ trying to protect you from that... that _thing_. Tien died. Chiaotzu died. Piccolo died. He almost killed a four year old! He doesn't even have a soul. He was going to slaughter us all like animals, and you're _fucking_ him?"

Bulma gathered herself, the visible anxiety morphing into anger before his eyes. She let out a haughty puff, straightening herself out and curling her fingers in towards her palm. "He's not that person any more. He's changed."

"I can’t believe you’re defending him! People like that aren't capable of change."

"Oh yeah? Is that right, Mr Desert Bandit?"

"There's a big difference between what I used to do and committing mass genocide. Don't put me in the same box."

Bulma exhaled loudly through her nose, nostrils flaring. “This isn't even your business anymore.”

“It's my business when you're out with _me_ and then you go home and fuck _him,”_ Yamcha couldn't control himself, months of lonely nights pining for her came rushing to the surface, mixing themselves with the rage of seeing the man that had orchestrated his death with the woman he loved. “I always knew you used your body to get what you wanted, but I didn't take you to be such an easy little whore.”

Bulma visibly blanched, and Yamcha regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

“Where do _you_ get off, judging _me_? Not that it's any of your business, but it's only ever been you and him. Sure I like to flirt sometimes, but that's it. No-one else, and no overlap,” Bulma said, eyes narrowing. “But I could have fucked my way through North City and I still wouldn't deserve to be spoken to the way you just spoke to me.”

“Bulma... I'm sorry, I didn't mean it,” Yamcha said, reaching out his hands desperately towards her.

“No, I think you did,” Bulma said as she pulled herself out his reach. Her cheeks were bright pink, her shoulders taunt. “You should go.”

“Maybe I should.”

Yamcha rose to his feet, feeling emotionally drained and struggling to keep it all together. It had all fallen apart so quickly, so spectacularly, and he hated himself for it. It just hadn’t gone the way he’d rehearsed it in his head, and he’d only made things worse, rather than better.

He turned to apologise, just in time to catch the colour drain from Bulma’s face as she lurched forward and vomited into a nearby waste paper basket. Instinct demanded he rush to her aid,  crouched at her side, his hands clasping at her shoulders in an attempt to steady her.

“Shh, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” he soothed as she wretched, one of his hands journeying down to her lower back, before starting a path back up to her neck and back again in slow, rhythmic strokes. “You’ll be okay, just breathe.”

Bulma heaved again, something wet hitting the bottom of the bin with an unpleasant splatter. He could hear her sobbing, though her face remained obscured, and he paused the rubbing of her spine to pet her hair in an attempt to comfort her.

“Do you want me to go get your mom?”

“No!” Bulma cried out, her voice strained and wet. “Don’t leave me.”

Yamcha felt as though those three simple words were hooks, latching themselves onto his heart and tugging as hard as they could. It was exactly what he wanted her to say, but the context was all wrong, and the whine in her voice was one of desperation, rather than one of love.

He said nothing as her vomiting came to a gradual stop, simply following a pattern along her back, occasionally pausing to dab at her sweaty brow. She smiled gratefully at him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and pushing the wastepaper bin away from her as she slumped backwards.

“Thank you,” Bulma whispered. Her hair was damp and flattened against her skull, but the unnatural green colouration had left her skin, and she looked brighter than she had earlier. Yamcha hated how she looked pretty, even now, tainted by another man, smelling of vomit and sweat. Hated how he thought about wrapping her up in his arms and never letting her go, tending to her until she recovered from whatever bug had felled the indominable Bulma Briefs.

It hurt to know she was no longer in love with him.

“I don’t think you’re a whore,” he confessed. “I just wanted to hurt you because I’m hurting.”

“It’s okay. I probably would have said and done far worse.”

“I know it’s more than sex,” Yamcha replied, closing his eyes. “I know you too well. It _hurt_ you to say it didn’t mean anything. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I sort of know Vegeta and he… the way he was holding you, and kissing you… he cares about you too.”

“Maybe,” Yamcha could feel clammy fingers come to rest atop his hand, and he screwed his eyes shut even tighter to compensate for the hot, prickly sensation assaulting them. “I meant what I said. Vegeta isn’t the same man as he was before. He can almost be …kind sometimes. He actually tried to cheer me up after we broke up. You should give him a chance.”

_Here it comes._

Yamcha swallowed thickly. He had to be selfish, had to do what he’d set out to do. “I can’t do that, and I can’t be around you any more, Bulma.”

 _Fourteen years_.

“I get that. I know things are awkward now, but—”

_Gone._

“No, I mean I can’t forgive you for this,” Yamcha finally opened his eyes, his mouth going dry as he was assaulted by watery blue eyes. “Ever. I’ll still fight the androids, I’ll still do everything I can to make sure you make it out of this alive, but we can’t be friends.”

Bulma blinked, only barely muffling a hysterical bubble of laughter. Then her face twisted, some sort of messy chimera of anguish and anger. “What? You can’t be serious. You guys make it a lifelong habit to befriend your former enemies. You and Goku, Goku and Piccolo, Goku and Vegeta. Hell, even Oolong started off as an asshole. It’s not even like you only tolerate those guys; just look at you and Tien! You’re so close now and you two _hated_ each other! He nearly ended your fighting career! If you can forgive him, why can’t you forgive me?”

Yamcha rose to his feet once more, his knees knocking with the effort of it all. He could feel Vegeta’s ki, oddly flat, as though he’d paused in his training regimen. He was certainly aware of Yamcha’s presence; after all, the scarred fight had made no effort to disguise himself from the Saiyan, but the quietness of the other man’s energy, the almost calculated stillness, felt intrusive. As though he were eavesdropping on Yamcha and Bulma’s conversation.

Bulma made no effort to stop him as he walked towards the living room door, still exhausted from whatever illness was afflicting her. Panchy’s tiny blip of ki flickered in the kitchen, and it was at least somewhat comforting to know that Bulma would be in safe hands once he left.

Looking over his shoulder, but refusing to look directly at her, Yamcha summoned the strength the answer her.

“Because the worst thing he ever did to me was break my leg.”

Bulma didn’t try to fight him, the sharp inhale of breath that followed his admission speaking louder than words truly could. Instead he heard her wait until he was half-way down the winding hallway connecting the various Capsule Corporation buildings before she allowed herself to cry.

It wasn’t until he was half-way to Mount Paozu, the wind biting and cold against his skin, that Yamcha allowed himself to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the big gap between chapters. It's been a busy few months. My laptop broke, and I had to wait for my insurance to pay out so I could replace it, and I also got a puppy who is cute, but a LOT of work. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience, and as always for the lovely reviews (they sustain me, I swear)


	14. In Sickness

“My husband hasn’t been sniffing around that delinquent of yours, has he? I haven’t seen him all day.”

“My delinquent?”

Bulma pressed her face against the cool marble countertop, phone lodged between her shoulder and ear as she attempted to alleviate the heat gathering under her skin and threatening to expel the contents of her stomach.

“That monster who tried to kill my precious baby.”

“No, Chi Chi, Goku isn’t with Vegeta, sorry,” Bulma replied, her fingers running smooth circles over her stomach, trying to calm the building nausea. From his seat across the kitchen counter, partially hidden behind the stack of food he was currently getting through as part of his mid-workout ‘snack’, Vegeta raised his head, his brows knit together in a familiar scowl. “Or maybe he was and Vegeta’s already buried the body. Either way, I can’t help you.”

At that Vegeta smirked. He rose from his chair to dump a single sandwich from his pile next to Bulma, dipping his head low to skim his teeth over the back of her neck before returning to his meal, as though the interaction had never happened at all. It was a rare gesture of affection that had, strangely, been becoming much less rare of late. Initially, Bulma had thought Yamcha’s impromptu visit had been the catalyst, Vegeta having cornered her in the living room shortly after his departure and escorted her upstairs in a way that was far gentler than she was used to with him. He was territorial, in his own way. 

But the next time they’d had sex Vegeta had been just as cautious, had even stopped several times throughout to ask if he had hurt her, mumbling something about her ki feeling strange when she’d pressed him on the matter. Now he was sharing his food with her – and not for the first time.

“You know that isn’t funny,” Chi Chi snapped, returning Bulma’s focus to the conversation at hand. Bulma was sure she heard a plate shatter on the other end of the line and winced. “My poor Goku has already died once, ya know. I can’t be a widow again. I’m too young.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. You know what he’s like. He loses track of time,” Bulma picked a lump off of the sandwich and popped it in her mouth, not even bothering to lift her head. “Have you tried Kame House?”

Across the line Chi Chi sighed dramatically. “Yes, _unfortunately_. That old pervert said he hasn’t been by in weeks.”

“How about the Lookout?”

“He’s not there, either, I had Krillin go check. Tien and Yamcha haven’t seen him for months, and I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up, don’t worry about it. Just give him a few days.”

“He has a driving lesson in two hours, Bulma! _Two hours_. They both do, and they’re AWOL. We don’t have a few days!”

Bulma raised her head, “Gohan is missing too? And he’s learning to drive? I know he’s smart, Chi Chi, but isn’t he a little young? Like, against the law young?”

“Not Gohan, Piccolo!” Chi Chi said, as though that should have been obvious. “They promised to learn how to drive in exchange for me letting Gohan training with them sometimes.”

Bulma doubled over laughing, earning her a look of bored confusion from Vegeta. “Goku and Piccolo are learning how to drive? Oh man, please tell me that there are going to be photos. I’ll have at least ten of them, and I’ll have them all blown up and hung around Capsule Corp.” 

“Bulma,” Chi Chi whined. “This isn’t funny. You don’t live in the middle of nowhere with a husband who’s always off saving the planet instead of getting a real job. I need this. He’s not reliable like Yamcha. You’re so lucky you know.”

“You do know that Yamcha and I aren’t together, right?” Bulma replied, quieter this time. She thought she saw Vegeta stiffen from the corner of her eye, but if he did then it was only for a microsecond, and by the time her gaze swivelled fully towards him he was engrossed in a pastry, sniffing it suspiciously before swallowing the thing near whole.

“Sure, sure,” Chi chi said cheerfully. “But you two are always breaking up and making up. You’ll be back together in no time.”

“Not this time,” As if on cue the nausea in Bulma’s stomach intensified, a sharp cramp striking out directly below her fingertips. She winced in response, digging the heel of her palm into the spot just to the right of her bellybutton, hoping that the pressure would, at the very least, momentarily ease the pain. She was probably developing an ulcer, with the stress of potential anhelation and harbouring an alien who was likely one of the universes most wanted criminals. “You know what Saiyans are like. Training always comes first. Goku and Piccolo are probably off in the mountains beating the crap out of each other. They’ll turn up when Goku’s hungry.”

“He’s always been the same, even before we knew he was an alien. But he was so good when I was pregnant with Gohan, always by my side, doing little things to make me feel better,” Chi Chi trailed off with a mournful sigh. “Maybe another baby would help him stick around more, and he loves Gohan so much. ”

“I’m not sure babies and world ending cyborgs are a good mix.”  

“You’re right,” Chi Chi conceded. “I’ll just have to wait for my baby boy to grow up and settle down with a sensible young girl. Then I can have all the grandbabies I want.”

“You really are a one-track pony, huh?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

\--------

 

Vegeta’s chest heaved under the pressure of 450Gs, the connective tissues within his body constantly fraying and reconnecting themselves to cope with the brutality of his training regime. His lungs begged him for mercy, unable to inflate to full capacity, his bones splintering under the oppressive weight of his own body. He could feel his body dying, cell by cell, bursting and crumbling and falling apart, and yet he felt fantastic.

Something hot and coiling traced a pattern along his spine, settling at the base of his tail, and for a startling moment he was concerned that he would, somehow, transform into an Oozaru even with its absence. The beast within greeted him fondly, an old friend he missed every time he attempted to curl his missing limb around his waist, and he could almost taste _something_ as electricity split through the air and crackled along the tip of his tongue.  

From across the compound, the woman’s ki suddenly exploded - still weak, but potent in its distress – and whatever it was that had been burning away inside of Vegeta dulled once more to a harmless flicker.

He had left the her to chatter inanely with Kakarot’s wife, offering her only a small sneer as she waved him off and continued to waste precious minutes of her day on such a mediocre conversation. Still, he’d been courteous enough to refrain from making demands for the training facilities, had allowed her to luxuriate her day away without a snide remark.                                                                                                 

Soft. He was growing pathetically soft.

Bulma had been sick for several days now, her body chemistry so out of tune that she’d even begun to smell differently. While the aroma wasn’t unpleasant, it was certainly unnatural, and her persistent vomiting and flux of her temperature had failed to rectify themselves, even with the aid of the sugary potions and concoctions her mother had forced upon her.

A small part of Vegeta had considered the possibility that the scarred weakling had poisoned her; after all, Bulma’s symptoms had worsened dramatically after his visit. But she was still alive, if anything her pulse felt stronger beneath the flat of his tongue as he traced patterns between her breasts, and while the so-called warrior was a coward, his devotion to the woman would surely prevent him from harming her. He had taken to observing her during his downtime, purely to satiate his own curiosity, of course. A quiet compulsion to ensure she at least survived long enough to watch him blow apart two overgrown toasters.

Bulma’s ki flared again, anxiety louder, darker. Without thinking Vegeta blew a hole in the roof, the emergency programming blaring to life and returning the gravity to normal in response, red sirens and wailing all dulled to him, his only real point of focus was the woman, and what potentially could have happened to her.

Had the androids somehow arrived several months earlier than expected? It would explain Kakarot and the Namekian’s sudden disappearance, if they’d sensed or been sensed by something predestined to slay them all. Perhaps the boy from the future had lured them into some sort of trap by purposely relaying the wrong information, or he’d floundered and gotten the dates wrong. If the androids had started their assault, it would be only natural that they’d come find him. That they’d attempt to challenge the strongest warrior on the planet.

But the woman…

He lived in her house. It would be easy for her to get caught in the crossfire. Easier still for one of the robots to break her pretty neck,or toss her around in their torment. It is, after all, what he used to do.

Vegeta launched himself through the makeshift spotlight, throwing everything he had into increasing his speed, the pounding of his heart furious in his ears.

He could still save her. He was yet to ascend, yet to secure the legacy that was rightfully his, but he could still do it. He felt it in his bones. He could still pry her from their clutches and prevent them from killing her. Then, when he presented her with their sparking, disembodied heads, she would see within him the greatness that had always been destined for him. He would be pissed that he was not the one to finally end Kakarot’s life, but the victory would be sweet nonetheless.

And if she was already dead? Fuck, Vegeta winced at the thought. He could find the Dragon Balls, couldn’t he? She had that device, the one she’d built to locate them, he could take it and use it, and wish for her to be brought back to life. It shouldn’t be that difficult if the morons she associated knew how to do it, and he was fairly certain she was yet to die, making the endeavour even easier. She would be overwhelmed with gratitude, throwing her arms around his neck in that ridiculous, overdramatic display of hers, and she would kiss him sweetly. And then not so sweetly. And then she would take him by the hand and lead him to her chambers, and he would keep her safe, and she would--

Vegeta crashed through the door so violently the wall shook, wooden splinters scattering across the living room floor. Bulma was sat on the sofa, looking only mildly shocked by his behaviour, a blanket tucked high around her shoulders, her pale face slick with tears.

He glanced around the room, eyes scanning for points of entry and potential foes. As far as he could see there were no androids, no threats of any kind, and Vegeta felt his panic melt away into confusion. “What the hell happened?”

“Hey, a-asshole, you’re the one who just wrecked my d-door. You tell me,” Bulma replied, though it lacked her usual snark. She rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles, sniffing pathetically as she did so. “Why’d you come charging in here like Goku’s just told you he wants to duke it out?"

“Your ki changed very suddenly into something like fear, I…” Vegeta trailed off, fighting back the heat blossoming beneath the surface of his skin. “I assumed that there was some sort of threat.”

“Oh, that? T-the dog d-d-died,” Bulma hiccupped, pointing a shaking finger towards the television that she was so fond of. On screen several humans wept, huddled around a fuzzy golden thing that somewhat resembled a species that he and Raditz had once made extinct during one of his pre-teen purging missions. Although the creature in the box seemed to be significantly smaller. And was missing a set of limbs.

“What the fuck is a dog?”

“It’s a type of animal,” Bulma said, rolling her eyes, as though that should have been obvious. Her tears, at least, were beginning to dry, and the wobble of her chin didn’t look quite so dangerous.

“Why would you cry over an animal dying? That makes no sense. You eat animals all the time.”

“Because it’s still sad. Dogs can be like… members of the family, you know?”

“So, was this your dog? Is that why you’re crying?”

“No. It’s from a movie. It’s not really.”

“So you intentionally made yourself sad, over an animal that you could so very easily eat, and you don’t even know?” Vegeta scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. “You humans are so pathetic. I don’t understand how your species has been able to thrive. You are all so very broken.”

“At least we _feel_ things. Other than raging boners for fighting, that is,” Bulma punctuated her reply by poking out her tongue, and Vegeta followed the quick dart of muscle over her lips with a dark obsession. She hesitated for a moment, as though mulling over a thought, before a devious smile spread across her face. “Vegeta, were you _worried_ about me?”

“W-what? _No._ ”

“Yes you were! Admit it.”

“Tch, I will admit no such thing.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, Bulma visibly gloating while Vegeta did his best to tamp down the blush that set his whole skin on fire. He was not _worried._ He was just… concerned that he’d miss out on the most thrilling parts of the fight if she were there to distract him. In harms way.

“You’re unwell,” Vegeta said after a moment, his cheeks finally feeling closer to his normal body temperature.

It wasn’t a question. In the time he had known the woman, he had not once seen her so listless. Her brain never seemed to switch off, and as such she occupied herself in her laboratory, constantly striving to improve on her existing creations. It was a drive that Vegeta knew well, an aspect of her personality that seemed to be lacking in most humans, and that he was able to respect. Bulma was prone to bouts of extreme laziness and petulance, but even then she kept herself busy. Investing in mountains of unnecessary clothing, hosting lavish parties. Wasting entire nights in his bed.

Recently, however, she had grown weary. Sickly. The last few days spent drifting around her home with little structure or focus, always looking tired, always looking lost. Saiyans were hardy by nature, something the weaker species on Frieza’s base often complained about whenever their numbers were cut by various diseases and the three of them remained in perfect health. But even he had experienced illness at some point or another,

When he was younger, perhaps no older than ten or eleven, both he and Raditz had contracted some sort of virus from a species dwelling on a small planet in the corner of a mostly uninhabited galaxy. The people itself had been easy enough to eradicate, under-evolved and weak as they were, several villages even wiped out without the Saiyan’s intervention, some sort of plague culling the numbers almost as quickly and effectively as the young warriors.  

Raditz had fallen first, quite literally. He’d been in the mess hall, looking rather peaky but insistent that he was _fine,_ that he was just tired from the purge, when his eyes had rolled rather suddenly to the back of his head, and his body crashed into a nearby table of angry foot soldiers. Nappa had carried the teenager back to their shared quarters, Raditz slung over the old man’s shoulder as though he were carrying his armour to be polished, and not a six foot fifteen-year-old. He had barely been conscious, mumbling rather pathetically for Gine, who Nappa later confirmed was his mother’s name, and sucking in deep, shuddering breaths as sweat gathered on his brow.

It had only been an hour or so later when Vegeta himself had felt a wave of sickness wash over him, his skin suddenly prickly and all too hot. He remembered very little after that, save for a feeling of helplessness that only somewhat trumped the overwhelming pain assaulting every inch of his body. Sometimes, during brief moments of clarity, he’d find Nappa force feeding him and Raditz much finer broths than the old man’s strict budget of credits usually allowed for, grumbling that they were spoilt brats who ruined everything, but tended diligently to their damp faces and shivering bodies nonetheless, and he never looked particularly angry. In fact, in Vegeta’s fever addled brain, he almost looked concerned, doting. Parental.   

Vegeta had vehemently denied Nappa’s absurd claims that he had spent most of the six days he was bedridden calling out for the king. Had given Raditz a sizable lump to the back of his head when the older boy, who’d recovered a day or two earlier than the young prince, made the wild accusation that Vegeta had insisted on being nursed and rocked by Raditz throughout the final throws of his illness.

They’d been lucky that their genealogy was as advanced as it was. That their bodies were designed to constantly heal and improve. The several members of other races who had also contracted the disease falling the mess hall incident had all died within 24 hours of initial exposure.

At least the woman didn’t seem _that_ ill.

“A little, yeah,” Bulma admitted with a grimace, as though admitting any sort of weakness caused her physical pain. “I’ll be fine. I just never get sick, so when it hits me it’s like a freight train. I’ll be back to normal soon enough.”

Vegeta hummed, considering her answer. “Come to bed.”

“I’m fine.”

“That is not a request, that is a demand.” He held out his hand expectantly, curling his fingers towards his palm in demonstration of his impatience. Bulma’s jaw set, a steely look of indignation passing over her features, and Vegeta decided to change tactics. He dropped his hand, crouching low enough to press a thigh between Bulma’s legs, and croon into her ear. “If you come to bed, I will join you.”

“What about your training?” Bulma asked, voice breathy. He felt her shift beneath the covers, raising her hips slightly to grind against his leg, even with all the layers between them, like the vulgar little thing she was. Her body still radiated wrongness, but the air around her shifted with the scent of her building arousal, and Vegeta felt a swell of pride bubble at the ease in which he could reduce her to something compliant, needy mess.                                     

“I’m unable to continue anyway, so I may as well do something with my newfound surplus of free time, even if that something is caring for a germ-infested earthling,” Vegeta dropped lower, pressing more of his weight against Bulma. “Let me take care of you.”  

As quickly as the mood had evolved into something that would be pleasant for both of them, it twisted again, and he felt Bulma’s hands press insistently at his chest.

“ _Why_ can’t you finish your training?” She asked suspiciously.

“I may have …damaged the Gravity Room.”

“Damaged it _how_?”

“There is a hole.”

“A hole?”

“In the roof.”

“In the roof?”

“Yes, woman. Are you incapable of speaking without mimicking me?”

Despite her ire, Bulma chuckled to herself, the sound of it pleasant as it vibrated through her body and into his. “Oh, Vegeta. What am I going to do with you?”

“If you had any sense, you’d kill me as I slept.”

\--------

It had taken only a little more persuading on his part, as well as an impromptu make out session on the sofa (only when Vegeta was satisfied that both of Bulma’s parents were far enough away to make an unwelcome and highly embarrassing intrusion unlikely) that was, admittedly, mostly just grinding and fondling one another under the blankets, to convince Bulma that she needed to rest.

She had assaulted him almost as soon as they entered her bedroom, suddenly finding her strength once more and tearing at his clothes until, somehow, they were a writhing mess and his drastically cut short training session was long forgotten.  

“Do you remember that day, not long after your moved in, I came home from a trip and things were just… different?”

Vegeta’s gaze drifted lazily towards Bulma, settling first on the naked curve of her backside, before roaming up towards her face. Her lips were plump, swollen from being bitten and kissed repeatedly, and her hair clung to her face in sweaty tendrils, and she looked achingly attractive. Vegeta’s cock stirred slightly, still wet and slick from their combined efforts, but he knew better than to push Bulma for another round so quickly. Human stamina was not as impressive as a Saiyan’s.

“Hmm.”

Vegeta remembered that day well enough, a turning point in his attitude towards the Bulma. She had up until that point, at least for the most part, been little more than an annoyance who happened to have a surplice of training equipment, food, and a pert behind to keep him interested enough that he’d avoid killing her. He’d still disliked her less than he’d disliked every other human he’d encountered, which was high praise in itself, yet her blind insistence in trailing around with the weakling and his overstuffed, floating rat kept him disgusted enough in her that any interactions they had with one enough were short, and out of necessity only.

Then the GR explosion had happened, and Vegeta remembered her panic-stricken face and the sensation of her body pressed desperately up against his, and not much else. He’d awoke to her sleeping soundly by his side, and at first had believed himself to be dreaming, but when she’d stirred from her slumber and started bitching him out with tears in her eyes, Vegeta had known he wasn’t so lucky.

The day in question had happened shortly after. He’d woken up, still in his confined state, to find the woman absent from his side for the first time since he’d been injured. Her mother, her replacement attendant, had cheerfully informed Vegeta that _Yamcha_ had taken Bulma out of town for some sort of anniversary celebration. Vegeta didn’t care to ask for details. He’d relished in the freedom, able to misbehave and break rules without her quick, calculating gaze immediately catching him out, performing illegal katas by his bedside.

But then one day had bled into two, and she still hadn’t returned.

Bulma still hadn’t returned, which meant he was trapped, needlessly, in his painfully archaic hospital room, without so much as a Gen I healing tank to aid him in his recovery, and no one was there to fix his precious Gravity Room for him.

He’d called her, both in his head and aloud, a string of expletives in every single language that he knew, though they’d mostly boiled down to ‘that selfish bitch.’

She’d returned mid-way through the third day, just as Vegeta had been completing his two hundredth sit up, her eyes red and swollen, curly hair unkempt and wild, bottom lip trembling.

And yet, as broken as she’d appeared to be, she’d collected herself and launched into a tirade about his apparent disregard for his health, and Vegeta had been unable to prevent himself from smirking. It was, after all, so very Saiyan.

“Are you sure?”

“Didn’t I just say so?” Vegeta snapped. “You’d been crying,” he added, voice softer.

Something unreadable flittered across her face, and Bulma’s lips parted as though she wanted to say something, before snapping shut once again. It seemed to take her a moment to gather herself, and Vegeta allowed her all the time in the world, enjoy the post-coital bliss far too much to demand she hurry whatever it was she wanted to say along. “I never told you why. That… that was the day Yamcha proposed to me. You know what marriage is, right?”

“Of course. We have different rules and names for such acts, but the principles are similar enough and I’ve been trapped on this planet long enough to learn about some of its stupid customs.”

“It was just after the Gravity Room explosion. You were still injured.”

“Tch. So you insisted. I suffered much worse and still continued through the battle field with ease.”

“ _Anyway_ , Yamcha had just proposed to me and all I could think about was checking up on you, and making sure you hadn’t snuck off to train again.”

“You threatened to set my hair on fire when you found me out of bed. It was quite admirable, especially as I hadn’t decided whether or not I was going to kill you yet.”

“Yeah,” Bulma sighed, fidgeting slightly by his side. The shift forced a thin trickle of fluid to run down her thigh, probably cooling and unpleasant to her, but, for Vegeta, the sight and smell simply egged on his returning arousal.

Vegeta seized his opportunity, his hand dipping between her legs to palm at her, he felt, rather than heard, her breath hitch, and for a moment he worried he’d pushed her too quickly. But then he felt Bulma grind down insistently into his palm, moaning low and drawn when he began to thumb at her clitoris. Her hands, small, delicate, tiny hands, found his cock, working a steady rhythm and encouraging him to fill out.

If not for the fire in his blood, calling him to battle, Vegeta considered this a perfectly reasonable way to live out the rest of his days. Just endless fucking with the woman he –

\-- the woman he fucks.

“What are you going to do when the androids show up?” Bulma gasped, her wrist twisting but pace never faltering as Vegeta pressed a finger inside of her.

The finger crooked, and Vegeta took pleasure in the way her eyelids fluttered in response. “Kill them both.”

Vegeta knew, somehow, that Bulma had no doubts that he was strong enough. She had seen he mangled scraps of metal that used to be drones, and she had once confessed that even without the ability to detect power levels or sense ki, she could _feel_ the raw energy rippling off of him at times. When she spoke of his power, she never did so in a way that seemed patronising or deluded. Instead she spoke with sincerity, with faith that she truly believed in him, in his quest to be the best. He wasn’t just some half-hearted pipe-dream used to placate three lost, homeless warriors. He wasn’t a collection of expectations born to satiate the king’s desire for more. He wasn’t just words, just a blustering ego. A collection of hot air and shallow promised.

To her, to Bulma, Vegeta was a Prince. The mightiest warrior to have ever drawn breath.  

She had more faith in him than he did himself.

“And after that?” Bulma pressed on, urging him to satiate a need burning inside of her. He didn’t know what she wanted him to say, so expectant and brimming with longing. He chewed on his lip, considered what it was she wanted from him, and settled for the truth when he drew a blank.

“...I'll fight Kakarot.”

“And a-after _that_?”

“You’re insufferable. I’m sure we’ve had this conversation before,” Vegeta paused for a moment, his brows furrowing together in concentration. “I'll pick off the remaining names on my list.”

“Your list?”

Their hands stilled.

“Of those who have wronged me. Of those who wronged my people. My father. Most of them are dead already. Cui, Zarbon, Dodoria, the Ginyu's... Frieza,” Vegeta said the last name through gritted teeth, and Bulma couldn't decide whether it was due to the hatred he harboured for the war-lord who had stolen him as a child and murdered his people, or because Vegeta hadn't been the one to finish him off. She suspected it was probably a bit of both. “And then we’ll traverse the stars, as promised. Though I seem to recall our agreement ending on a sour note the last time we discussed it.”

“I’m hideously close to wanting to grow old with you, Vegeta.”

She had, albeit clumsily, confessed her love for him in recent weeks. And he had, in turn, claimed her flesh as his. Yet hearing her so brazenly state her wishes, her desires to live a life that relied on his companionship, sparked something strange and unsettling within him. Vegeta’s stomach flipped, and he considered taking his leave and fleeing from her. “I thought you were an intelligent woman,” he said instead, tone sombre.  

He removed his hand, shifting down the bed to settle between Bulma’s parted legs and, with one last look into her eyes, blue and forlorn and begging him for something he was unable to give her, Vegeta hooked her thighs over his shoulders.

“Vegeta, you don't have to.”

“I know.”

Though, in theory, Vegeta knew what he was doing, he had zero practice. His sexual experience prior to Bulma had consisted entirely of one-night-stands and meaningless, casual 'flings' (if you could even call them that). Certainly not enough to warrant such an intimate physical act, especially one that was based on providing someone else pleasure.

Her fingers wove into his hair, alternating between grabbing fistfuls of it and tugging, and gently caressing his skull. Vegeta kissed her experimentally, his tongue flicking out almost shyly, though her responding moan and full body shudder helped bolster his confidence. He mimicked the action once again, bolder this time, deciding that he liked the taste of her body, the taste of him clouded with it,  and the sensation of her hot, fluttering hole contracting against his mouth. Her head lolled back, and the grip on his hair tightened, so he took that as a positive sign, and continued to work his tongue in a pattern that mimicked his fingers during previous liaisons. 

It only took him a few minutes to have her keening his name, fingers clawing at his scalp, his neck, his shoulders – whatever purchase she could find. Bulma was still red-faced and trembling when he entered her, eyes glazed and jaw slack.

Vegeta kept the pace slow, both to accommodate the increased fragility of her body, and to appease a voice within him that demanded he handle her with care, that this was not the time for hot, fast rutting. She always looked so pretty beneath him, like this. Flushed and loose limbed, beads of sweet forming and collecting in the dip of her collar bone, down towards her naval.

“ _Ysh varyr yr kratys yn yryk,”_ he said into her neck, his eyes screwed tightly shut and the words unfurling something within his chest as they seeped into her skin. He hadn’t intended on saying it, hadn’t even thought about it, and yet, in the heat of the moment, the words had demanded that they be heard, and forced their way from his tongue without his permission.  

Vegeta came with the quiet whisper of her name, clutching her as tightly as he could without crushing her. She moaned softly, pulling his face towards hers and kissing him, no doubt tasting herself. Tasting him. Tasting every terrible thing they had ever done, both independently and together.

“What did you say to me?” She asked against his lips, barely more than a frantic whisper, bodies still joined. “What did you say to me?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

He looked away from his face, turning his head and preoccupying himself with the half moon peeking through the window, making its presence known despite the sun that had yet to dip below the horizon, and quelling the itch of a phantom limb that he still desperately missed, as much as he tried to convince himself and the world otherwise. A physical reminder of the dead race that one traversed the stars as living legends. Of the dead language that had slipped, inadvertently, from his tongue, understood by no-one in the entirety of the universe but himself. 

Vegeta scowled, swallowing down the sudden rush of melancholy and dragging his gaze back towards Bulma. Exhaustion had crept in, her eyes already heavy lidded and her breathing low and steady, though when she noticed his interest in her she offered him a sweet, brilliant smile, pulling herself closer to curl against his chest. 

It shouldn’t be like this. 

It shouldn’t be so pleasant, so easy, to be in her company like this.

He shouldn’t enjoy it as much as he enjoyed training.

He shouldn’t have allowed himself to become so distracted from his higher goal.

_Ysh varyr yr kratys yn yryk._

Vegeta pushed back against the wave of disgust, ignoring the angry voice inside of his head that sounded so much like his own, telling he was an embarrassment to his warrior heritage. He slipped his hand underneath the small of Bulma’s back, his palm almost large enough to completely cover the expanse of skin and hoisted her upwards until their mouths met with far too much teeth and tongue. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

Bulma kissed him back just as needily, as though she too was suffering the same way he was suffering. As if she was also aware that everything they knew was only temporary, and whatever it was that they shared together was rapidly coming to an end.

_The honour I fight for is yours._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for the big delay. I lost the hard drive containing the entirety of Imbroglio, and for a long time I was just too disheartened to return to the project (aka, I sulked). Then, when I finally found motivation, real life got in the way and I simply didn’t have the time. I can only apologise if things feel ‘off’, it’s been hard trying to get back into the swing of things, especially as my writing style outside of fanfiction is drastically different. 
> 
> I’m quite fond of the idea of there being some sort of biological impulse that essentially forces Saiyans to stick by their mates/spouses when certain, ahem, conditions are met, and I like the think that Vegeta’s behaviour during Bulma’s second pregnancy solidifies that headcanon. I like giving the Saiyans some primal, animalistic behaviours that aren’t necessarily very human, and territorial den guarding is just another example of this. 
> 
> For those of you that have stuck around despite the wait, and to those of you who nominated Imbroglio for TPatH annual awards, I cannot thank you enough. You’re the best.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](https://www.myn-sii.tumblr.com), ρατrϵon (where I post updates 24-48 hours in advance) and Ko-Fi.


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